

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap3f.Z^> Copyright No. 

SheliJr.ftf}3 33 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 













































A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 





A Daughter of Strife 



JANE HELEN FINDLATER 

AUTHOR OF 

“THE GREEN GRAVES OF BALGOWRIE” 



NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
1897 


ne 




TWO COPIFS RFmvfn 



Copyright, 1897 
by 

Dodd, Mead & Company 


BURR PRINTING HOUSE, NEW YORK. 


PAKT I 


‘ . . . Old unhappy far-off things. 
And battles long ago.’ 



A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


CHAPTER I 

As long ago as the year 1710 there lived in 
London town a girl of the name of Anne Cham- 
pion — a straw-plaiter by trade, and by hard 
fortune a beauty. Anne lived alone in a gar- 
ret, and earned her bread by the sweat of her 
brow, plaiting straws for hats from early morn- 
ing to late at night. Then she would go out 
and buy her food for the next day, if she had 
earned enough to buy food with, and if she had 
not, she would do without food and work on. 

A hard life enough ; but it was not to last 
for ever. For Anne had a fine lover at the 
wars — Surgeon Sebastian Shepley, — and ere 
very long he was to return, and Anne was to 
say farewell to work. Partings were partings 
in those days, and Anne never thought of get- 


2 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


ting a letter from Flanders more than once in 
seven or eight weeks. When she got one, poor 
girl, she could not read it — no, nor answer it ; 
for she had no ‘ book-learning, ’ and had never 
been taught to write ; but she used to take her 
letters to a former adorer of her own who served 
in a print-shop, and he kindly read his rival’s 
love-letters aloud, and, when Anne could afford 
to send one in return, would even be forgiving 
enough to write it for her. Anne’s fine lover 
had caused considerable jealousy among her 
neighbours, and old Mrs. Hare, the mother of 
Matthew, the young man in the news-shop, was 
never tired of hinting to Anne that no good 
ever came of such unequal alliances. When she 
saw that Anne was quite undisturbed by these 
prognostications, Mrs. Hare tried to persuade 
her that there was little chance Shepley would 
ever return from the wars. 

‘ The surgeons do come by their deaths in 
war-time so well as the soldiers,’ she would 
say ; ‘ best not set your heart overly on him, 
Anne.’ And Anne would whiten, and turn 
away at her words. 

Yard’s Entry, where Anne Champion and 
Mrs. Hare lived, is a place that smells of age 
now — it was counted old even in these far-away 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 3 


days I write of, — and the stone stairs leading 
up to Anne’s garret were worn away into cres- 
cent shape by the tread of many generations. 
At the foot of these stairs, on warm evenings, 
Mrs. Hare us'ed to stand and watch all her 
neighbours’ affairs ; so it was natural enough 
that a stranger coming in to the Entry one 
evening should address himself to her when he 
made inquiry for Anne Champion. He was a 
young man with very bright eyes, and his voice, 
as clear as the note of a flute, echoed up the 
stair as he spoke. 

4 Doth Anne Champion live here, my good 
woman ? ’ he asked. 

4 Ho, sir. Anne she lives at the top of the 
stair,’ said Mrs. Hare, squinting up at the 
stranger out of her narrow old eyes, then, actu- 
ated by unknown motives, she added — 

4 Anne she ’ ve got a lover at the wars, ’ in a 
sort of interrogative tone. She had seen Shep- 
ley more than once, and knew this was not he ; 
perhaps she wished to find out the stranger’s 
errand. 

4 Thank you, thank you,’ was all he said, how- 
ever, as he disappeared up the winding old 
stair. Up and up he went, feeling his way, for 
there was little or no light to guide him, then 


4 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


he stumbled against a door, and knocked at 
haphazard, hoping it was the door he sought. 

‘ Come in, ’ said some one, and at that the 
man, groping with the latch for a moment, at 
last got the door open, and stood on the thresh- 
old looking in. 

The sunshine fell across the floor in a flood of 
smoky brightness, and full in the sun’s beams 
sat Anne Champion, surrounded by the straw 
she was plaiting. It was piled up round her, 
within reach of her fingers, that moved like 
lightning at her mechanical toil. 

Anne wore a gown of pink calico, and, 
whether for greater comfort or from mere un- 
tidiness, all her yellow hair hung over her shoul- 
ders in splendid confusion. She let her work 
fall at sight of a stranger, started up, and stand- 
ing almost knee-deep among the straw, caught 
at her hair, and began to wind it up into a knot. 

The young man stood still on the threshold 
for a full minute, as I have said. Then he 
seemed to recollect himself, and stepping across 
the floor he held out his hand to the girl, smil- 
ing very pleasantly. 

‘ I scarce need to ask if you are Anne Cham- 
pion,’ he said. 

Anne seemed too much taken aback by this 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 5 


unexpected visitor to make any reply. She 
stood looking at him and twisting her long yel- 
low hair between her fingers. At last she said — 

‘ Yes, sir, I be Anne Champion,’ and waited 
for him to make known his errand. 

The young man did not seem to be in any 
hurry, however. He looked round the bare 
little room, and then looked again at Anne 
before he spoke. 

6 I am come to make excuses, ’ he said then ; 
c and if you will allow me to sit down, for I am 
weak still from a fever, I shall make them to 
the best of my ability. ’ 

Anne produced a stool from a corner and 
proffered it to her visitor. 

‘ I am come from Flanders, ’ he began again ; 
but he did not speak like one intent on his busi- 
ness : his bright eyes were fixed on Anne ; he 
seemed to be speaking of one thing and think- 
ing of another. His words, however, had a 
quick effect on Anne — her look of perplexed 
shyness had vanished. 

c From Flanders ? Ah, sir, ’tis welcome 
thrice over you are ! ’ she cried ; ‘ an’ are you 
bringing me news of my dear man ? ’ Her face 
was radiant ; she smiled, and the beautiful 
dimples in her cheek were revealed, and her 


6 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


white even teeth. Her very eyes seemed to 
smile. 

The young man began to speak again — with 
unaccountable stumblings and hesitations, still 
reading Anne’s face with his quick bright eyes 
as he spoke. 

‘ I am come — Sebastian Shepley,’ he said, 
and paused. 

At the sight of his perturbation Anne came 
quickly towards him and laid her hand on his 
shoulder. 

4 Sir, sir,’ she cried. 6 Don’t tell me as there 
is aught amiss, with my Sebastian. ’ 

‘ Anne, I am come from your old lover Shep- 
ley, as you surmise,’ began the young man 
again ; ‘ he — he is well in health. ’ 

The colour which had left Anne’s face rushed 
back to it in a beautiful scarlet tide. 

£ Lord ! sir, Sebastian ’s not old, begging 
your pardon, sir,’ she said, letting her hand 
fall from his shoulder, rather ashamed of her 
sudden familiarity. 

£ I — ’twas not that way I meant it, Anne ; 
I scarce know,’ stammered the young man. 
‘ Come, sit down by me and I shall tell you 
all.’ 

Anne, however, would not have felt easy sit 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 7 


ting down in the presence of this fine stranger 
in lace ruffles. She stood opposite him and still 
looked anxious in spite of his assurances. 

‘ There hath ill come to him, sir ; he ’s 
wounded ; or — or—’ she said. 

The young man seemed suddenly to have 
collected himself ; his embarrassment, if em- 
barrassment it had been, vanished as suddenly 
as it had come. lie rose and came over to 
where Anne stood. 

{ He hath no wound nor hurt of any sort, 
Anne, but he hath sent me with a message to 
you, and this is it : — The war is like to keep 
liim so long in the Low Country he dare not 
ask you to wait. ’ 

4 1 ’d wait a lifetime for him, ’ laughed Anne. 
£ If that be all his message he hath troubled you 
for naught, sir. ’ 

4 ’Tis not all. The fact is Sebastian has mar- 
ried — married a pretty Dutch wife. He feared 
to exhaust your patience. He asked me to 
tell you. “ For,” said he, “ Anne hath so 
many lovers ’twill be neither here nor there to 
her. ” As like as not he may be years abroad still. ’ 

There was a moment’s silence. Anne looked 
her visitor straight in the eyes ; she had whit- 
ened down to her very lips. 


8 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


‘ You are but fooling with me, sir,’ she said, 
half whispering the words. 

‘ I am in sober earnest ; ’tis no matter for 
jest this,’ said the young man, looking at 
Anne’s blanching cheeks. 

‘ O good Lord ! ’ then cried Anne in a piteous 
crying voice — the note of a bird over its harried 
nest. She seemed to forget the presence of a 
stranger, and, sinking down against a settle 
that stood by the wall, she hid her face in her 
hands and sobbed, rocking herself back and 
forwards in her bitter grief. 

‘ Sebastian, Sebastian dear, you are not wed- 
ded true and certain ? ’ she cried. ‘ O God 
help me, an’ what am I to do now ? O Lord ! 
O Lord ! ’ 

The young man who had brought this, ill 
news did not go away and leave Anne alone 
with her sorrow, as most men would have done. 
He sat down on the settle she leant against and 
laid his hand kindly on her shoulder though he 
said nothing. Anne sobbed on, with hidden 
face, and all the time her visitor’s bright eyes 
were roving round the room, taking in every 
detail of its poor arrangements, yet ever and 
again he would pat the girl’s shoulder in token 
of sympathy. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 9 


Suddenly Anne rose to her feet. 

‘ He ’s not worth a tear,’ she said. £ He ’s 
like the rest of you. I had no opinion of men 
before that I took up with Sebastian, an’ a fool 
I was to be deceived with him. You ’re all 
like that,’ she cried, pointing to the pile of 
straw at her feet. ‘ A spark ’ll send you up in 
a blaze, and you ’re as much to be leaned on 
as that. ’ She plucked a straw from the heap, 
and snapped the brittle yellow stalk across as she 
spoke, with an unconsciously dramatic gesture. 

‘ Come, not all, ’ said the young man, sur- 
prised by her words. 

‘ Yes, all. Well, this I do say for Sebastian, 
he ’s as fine a liar as he was a lover — would take 
in Judas hisself with them straight eyes o’ his.’ 

‘ I am grieved to have borne such bitter news 
to any one, ’ said the young man. ‘ But you 
take it the right way, Anne, and when Shepley 
returns ’twill be to find a better man in his 
place. ’ 

c Better man ! There ’s not one good among 
’em — no, not one,’ said Anne, bitterly. She 
walked away to the little window, through 
which the sunshine was pouring in with garish 
brightness, and leant her forehead against the 
panes. 


10 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


‘ Come, Anne,’ urged her visitor, following 
her to the window. 6 You must do your en- 
deavour to forget him. ’Tis a scurvy trick he 
has played you, but there ’s a proverb suited to 
your case I would have you remember, about 
the good fish in the sea ! Come, here is a coin 
as yellow as your hair to help you to the forget- 
ting. Buy yourself a new gown with ribbands 
and have a night at the play. ’ 

Anne looked askance at the stranger’s gold 
for a moment ; then she flung back her head 
and laughed a harsh-sounding mirthless laugh. 

4 1 had best make sure ’tis gold I ’ve got this 
time ! ’ she said, catching up the coin and ring- 
ing it on the table. 

‘ I shall bid you good-night then, my good 
girl,’ said the stranger, and held out his hand 
once again. 

A minute later he plunged down the dark old 
stair. ‘ What is it like ? going down thus into 
darkness ? ’ he said to himself ; but he did not 
reply to the question. 


CHAPTER II 


The young man Richard Meadowes found a 
coach waiting for him round the corner of 
Yard’s Entry ; he jumped in and bade the 
coachman drive home to St. James’ Square : a 
long drive, but Meadowes did not find it so, his 
thoughts were amply occupied. When he 
reached home he went in and sat down in a 
chair beside the fire, apparently in a brown 
study. What was he thinking about so in- 
tently all the time ? About a lie : for the 
whole story of Sebastian Shepley’s marriage 
had been invented by Richard Meadowes on 
the spur of the moment, as he stood stammer- 
ing and hesitating before Anne Champion. 

Meadowes had known Sebastian Shepley from 
his childhood. They had been born and 
brought up in the same little country village of 
Wynford, where Meadowes’ father had owned 
the Manor House and the wide lands appertain- 


12 A DAUGHTEE OF STEIFE 


ing to it, while Shepley ’s father was the village 
apothecary. Then they both went to the 
wars ; Meadowes to fight, Shepley to heal ; 
now, tired of campaigning, which had never 
been to his mind, Meadowes had left the ser- 
vice and returned to England, where, since his 
parents’ death, he had inherited, together with 
the Manor House of Fairmeadowes, this house 
in St. James’ Square and enough of money to 
ruin most men. 

But Eichard Meadowes was neither idle nor 
without interests. The whole of life appealed 
vividly to him, every day was crowded with 
incident and amusement, his difficulty was to 
select between his pleasures : now of a sudden 
he had brought himself into a curious place. It 
had been from the easy pleasantness of his na- 
ture that Meadowes had offered, when leaving 
Flanders, to carry any letters home to Wynford 
for Dr. Sebastian Shepley. The young surgeon 
had hesitated for a moment before asking if, 
instead of bearing a letter to Wynford, Mead- 
owes would deliver one in London. 

‘ With all my heart — a dozen an’ you please,’ 
said Meadowes kindly ; for he liked the young 
man with his steady blue eyes, who came more- 
over from Wynford like himself. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 13 


So Sebastian Shepley had intrusted a bulky 
letter to his care, and along with it a package 
containing, said he, some amber beads for 
4 Annie, ’ £ as yellow as her hair. 5 These were 
to be given to his sweetheart by Meadowes’ 
own hand. 

How, like most men who are good at making 
pleasant promises, Meadowes was not quite so 
good at keeping them. He forgot all about 
Sebastian Shepley ’s love-letter for several 
weeks, and lost the amber beads, so that when 
at last he set out to deliver the letter, he had 
determined to make such apologies as he might 
for the loss of the beads. 

But when first his eyes rested on Anne Cham- 
pion he thought only of her beauty. He stood 
and stammered before her, and then there 
came a whisper : Shepley was in Flanders . . . 
might never return . . . might have forgotten 
Anne when he did . . . why could he not sup- 
plant him in the meantime ? 

Ho wonder he had hesitated for a little be- 
fore inventing the story ; but now that it was 
done a host of difficulties presented themselves 
to Meadowes’ fancy. First of all, Shepley 
might write again to Anne any day — in all 
probability he would not do so for some weeks, 


14 A DAUGHTER OF STKIFE 


but still he might — therefore Anne must be in- 
duced to leave her present home as quickly as 
might be. Secondly, Anne had impressed him 
as a self-respecting woman, quite able to take 
care of herself ; she was no sidy child to be 
easily deceived, and, so far as he could judge, 
not to be bought either. It is true Anne had 
taken the coin he offered her, but Meadowes 
acknowledged that she had scarcely seemed to 
know what she was about at the time. How 
then was he to gain favour in her eyes ? How 
manage to ingratiate himself with her quickly 
without rousing her suspicions ? He had no 
possible pretext for going to visit her again, 
yet go he must, and that speedily, or he ran 
the risk of Anne’s having received another let- 
ter from her lover, which might make her dis- 
believe ah the statements she had accepted to- 
day. 

As Meadowes weighed the matter in his 
mind, he remembered Shepley’s amber beads. 
Find them he must, and they might be offered 
to Anne as a farewell gift from her faithless 
adorer. So he prosecuted an active search for 
the missing package, and when at last it had 
been discovered, sat down and opened it. Then 
Meadowes slipped the warm yellow beads 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 15 


through his fingers like a monk at his devo- 
tions, but all the while darting fears and shivers 
of shame overcame him, for he was a man of 
quick sensitiveness, fully conscious of the base 
part he was playing. 

There was no time to be lost ; the next day 
at latest he must go to see Anne again. 

Thus it came about that Meadowes stood 
once more at Anne Champion’s door the next 
afternoon and knocked. 

Anne opened it herself ; she stood on the 
threshold, and did not invite her visitor to 
come in. 

4 Oh, ’tis you again,’ was all she said for 
greeting. 

4 1 am come with the remainder of my mes- 
sage, Anne, ’ said Meadowes. 4 I forgot yester- 
day to make over this part of it to you. ’ 

4 Come in then,’ said Anne, curtly enough, 
and she moved across to the little window, 
which stood open for the heat. The room had 
a deserted air, Anne seemed to have been sit- 
ting idle, for there were no signs of her usual 
occupation. 

4 Sit down, sir,’ she said, and waited for 
Meadowes to make known this further errand 
of his. 


16 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


6 Shepley asked me to deliver this amber chain 
into your hand as a keepsake, and to bear him 
no ill will,’ he said, handing the necklace to 
Anne. 

4 A likely thing it is I ’ll have his gifts ! ’ 
cried the girl. She flushed angrily, and with 
a quick movement of her arm flung the chain 
out at the window ; it fell on the opposite roof, 
and the smooth beads slid down the slates and 
lodged in some unseen crevice. 

‘ There they may rot for me ! ’ she cried. 

‘ Ah, come, ’ began Meadowes ; 4 he meant 
kindly by the gift. ’ 

‘ I ’ll have none o’ his kindness then, ’ said 
Anne. She did not seem disposed for further 
conversation. But Meadowes persisted : — 

‘ You seem scarce so busy to-day.’ 

‘ Ho more I am, sir ; I be tired of work. ’ 

‘ Have you ever lived in the country ? ’ 
queried Meadowes, who had since the day be- 
fore evolved his plans a little. ‘ Work is none 
so hard there, and living pleasant ; quiet is 
good for a sad heart. ’ 

‘You’ll have tried it, sir? ’ said Anne sarcas- 
tically. ‘ For sad hearts be mighty common.’ 

‘ Ah ! I have had my sad days too. ’ 

‘ I ’d scarce have thought it, sir,’ said Anne, 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 17 


taking a survey of her visitor, 4 But there, 5 
she added, as if on second thoughts, 4 you have 
mayhap felt things like the rest of us. 5 

4 I have — I have. God knows I feel things,’ 
said Meadowes, with sudden curious earnest- 
ness. He crossed over to where Anne stood, 
and laid his fine, white, ringed hand on her 
arm for a moment. 

4 I am grieved for you, Anne ; indeed I am ; I 
had not thought ’twould be such a stroke to you, 
this. I would it were in my power to help you.’ 

Anne shook her head. 

4 ’Tis kind of ypu, sir, and thank you ; there ’s 
but the cure of time for me, I do fear,’ she said, 
drawing back slightly from the touch of Mead- 
owes’ hand as she spoke. 

‘ I have a cottage in the country,’ he began, 
4 where an old nurse of mine keeps bees and 
flowers and the like : mayhap a change to 
country air would help you to the forgetting of 
your trouble.’ 

Anne shook her head and smiled. 

4 1 ’d get no sale for my straw-plaits there- 
away,’ she said. 

4 Oh, I would pay you ’ began Meadowes, 

but Anne cut him short. 

4 For what, sir ? ’ she asked sharply. 


18 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


Meadowes became certain of what he had 
only suspected before, — that Anne Champion 
was quite able to take care of herself. 

4 For your work, my good girl,’ he said, 
drawing himself up rather stiffly for a moment. 
4 Martha hath over much on her hands between 
the bees and the flowers. If you care to live 
with her it would be to give her your assistance 
in these matters. 5 

‘I’ve no knowledge o’ flowers nor any skill 
with bees, sir,’ said Anne, still speaking in a 
suspicious tone. Then she added : 4 And where 
will this place be, sir ? for I have been no more 
than ten miles from London all my days.’ 

4 Not farther than that ; ’tis out Richmond 
way, ’ said Meadowes. 4 But pray do not 
hasten yourself to decide. I can get another 
woman any day. ’Twas but that I fancied the 
country might change your thoughts for you 
that I made you the offer.’ He rose as he 
spoke and held out his hand. 

4 Thank you, sir,’ said Anne, curtseying to 
her fine visitor, and rather impressed by his 
sudden assumption of dignity. 

Meadowes was quick to observe the advan- 
tage he had gained. 

4 If you care to take a week wherein to think 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 19 


over the offer,’ he said, ‘ I shall keep the place 
vacant for you till then.’ 

‘ Thank you, sir,’ again said Anne. 

‘ Shall I come and see you at the week’s 
end ? ’ asked Meadowes. 

‘ I thank you ; yes, sir,’ said Anne. 

When her visitor had gone Anne sat down 
by the window to consider the matter. ‘ Him 
an’ his bees ! ’ was her first contemptuous con- 
clusion, for, as she would have expressed it 
herself, £ handsome women they do know their 
own know about the men.’ Then she thought 
over the past, with its hard work and scanty 
pay, over the present, that was swept empty 
of hope and pleasure, into a future, that had 
nothing to offer but work, work, work. It 
was a fixed belief with Anne that men were 
seldom wholly disinterested in their motives. 
She could not bring herself to imagine that 
Meadowes offered her this situation because he 
wished his work done — no, no, it was because 
she was ‘ so rarely fine-looking, ’ that was all. 
But then what if it proved to be a good situa- 
tion — good pay, little work ? — she would be a 
fool to refuse it. And further, she was well 
able to take care of herself. 

There are moods of mind when only some 


20 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


change in the outward conditions of life can 
promise hope or comfort. It seemed to Anne 
impossible that she could stay on here in her 
old surroundings when everything in the future 
had changed for her. She was even weak and 
feminine enough to imagine the delight of Mrs. 
Hare when she discovered that her prophecies 
had come true and Anne’s fine lover had proved 
faithless. This thought recurred to her again 
and again, for women are curious creatures, 
and bad as they find it to be jilted, they per- 
haps find it worse still that other women should 
be able to marvel and gossip over their deserted 
state ! Said Anne, when this thought had be- 
come intolerable, ‘ I shall go away to the coun- 
try ; Mrs. Hare shall be none the wiser,’ and 
with that she decided to accept the offered situ- 
ation, whatever it might prove to be. 

So when on the following Sunday afternoon 
Meadowes appeared once more at Yard’s En- 
try, he found Anne quite ready to undertake 
the unknown duties she had hesitated over the 
week before. 

‘I’m happy to go, sir, ’ she said ; ‘ and if so 
be as I do fail at the work, ’tis your own fault, 
sir, offering the place to one as knows nought 
of country ways. ’ 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 21 


‘ You will learn — you will learn,’ said Mead- 
owes hastily. 

‘ And your name, sir ? if I may make bold 
to ask. ’ 

* Mr. Richard Sundon ; I fancied I had given 
you my name ere this. ’ 

‘ No, sir, and mayhap you live in the country 
thereaway ? ’ 

It scarcely suited Meadowes to answer this 
with absolute veracity. 

‘No, in town — in rooms just now ; some day 
I shall settle down, ’ he replied. 

‘ O yes, sir, a home ’s a fine thing they do 
say,’ said Anne, in a dreary voice that had the 
echo of tears in it. 


CHAPTER III 


Meadowes did not pay much heed to where he 
was going as he left Yard’s Entry that Sunday 
afternoon. He was so absorbed in his thoughts 
that he walked forward without aim or direc- 
tion. And these thoughts were curiously in- 
volved : a horror of what he was about ; a de- 
termination to persist in it. 

4 What ’s this I am doing ? what ’s this I ’ve 
done ? Broken a woman’s heart, and played a 
good man false . . . and I am gaining (per- 
haps) my desires, and losing (certainly) my 
soul. . . . Soul ? Have we got souls ? I 
that am doing this, have I a soul ? I doubt 
it . . . we are but as the beasts that perish — 
and yet ’ 

He stumbled along through the narrow, 
crowded streets. £ I ’ll go and pray,’ he said, 
stopping suddenly before the door of one of the 
old city churches (it stands there yet, grey and 
cool). 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 23 


4 Here,’ he said to the verger, 6 is the church 
empty ? ’ 

4 Empty as a new-made grave, sir, ’ said the 
man cheerfully. 

Meadowes passed into the musty coolness of 
the church. He walked up the aisle and chose 
out the darkest corner he could find, where to 
offer up his strange petitions. There was a 
brass let into the wall here commemorating the 
brave fall of men who had died gallant deaths ; 
a banner, bullet-singed and tattered, hung from 
the roof. Meadowes knelt under the faded 
fringes and covered his eyes with his hands, to 
shut out the world. 

Then the former doubt invaded him, and the 
terror that the unseen was a delusion and man 
but a soulless higher brute with a hand-breadth 
of Time to sport in, overcame him with the 
blackness of despair. 

4 Better far have a lost soul than none at all, ’ 
he cried out in horror. He looked up at the 
banner above him ; for things, after all, as in- 
tangible as the soul he doubted of, some happy 
mortals had bled and died — for Honour, Patri- 
otism, Courage. Had they forfeited the merry 
years for shadows, been fools for their pains ? 
Remembrances crowded on him of War and 


24 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


Death : he seemed to see whole spectral armies 
of the slain arise. He named them happy as 
they rose ; for had they not died undoubtingly, 
bartering life for these intangible realities so 
worthy the life-blood of men ! Ah for the un- 
questioning heart — to be able to walk straight 
forward in a plain path ! But for him question 
would rise upon question : and this, the dark- 
est doubt, the poisoning of Effort at its very 
sources, was worst of all — no Unseen, nothing 
but the solid merry world really to be counted 
upon ! If this was so, then good-bye to aspira- 
tion, grasp at the Seen, hold it fast, for seventy 
miserable years only were to be depended on — 
depended on ! not seventy seconds were as- 
sured to him. ‘ Lord ! I must have my pleas- 
ures ! ’ he cried, remembering the few and 
evil years. Then in spite of the doubts that 
tormented him, Meadowes suddenly began to 
pray. He came before the God whose exist- 
ence he could not be sure of, with a con- 
fession he would not have made to his fellow- 
men. 

c O God, ’ he prayed, speaking low into his 
clasped hands, 6 1 have planned this thing and 
am going on with it — ’tis pure devilry, but I 
am going on. Lord, I do it open-eyed. Some 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 25 


day punish me as I deserve — now I must take 
my pleasure ’ 

A curious prayer ; but perhaps better than 
no prayer at all. For herein lies the world’s 
hope, that every man — the blackest sinner 
amongst us— is on his own extraordinary terms 
with the Unseen. Were we as grossly mate- 
rial as appears, we were lost indeed. 

Meadowes’ faith truly was reduced to the 
minimum, and yet, and yet — to Something he 
made confession, assured only of this, that if 
any Presence listened it must be with pity. 
He rose from his knees and went out again into 
the crowded streets, filled not with any sudden 
resolutions of repentance, but with the deter- 
mination to persist in the course he had orig. 
inally planned out. He even felt a certain re- 
lief of conscience. 4 I have explained it with 
God? he found himself saying, adding a mo- 
ment later, 4 If there be such an One. ’ Then 
his thoughts seemed to fall into question and 
answer : 

4 And doth that make all straight ? ’ 

‘ Straighten : for 1 have said that such pun- 
ishment as I deserve for this , 1 shall talced 
4 Did you mean what you prayed ? ’ 

4 If there are punishments in truth d 


2G A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


‘ Do you think there are ? 5 

‘No: I doubt it? 

‘ Then you will have your pleasure without 
risk ? ’ 

6 1 hope for it? 

But conscience had after all the last word, 
for it spoke suddenly and loudly then : — 

‘ No , no ; “a sword shall pierce thine own 
heart also? 1 1 




CHAPTER IY 


Till a few years ago the cottage was still stand- 
ing where Anne Champion went to live at the 
bounty of Richard Meadowes. It stood on one 
of the crossways leading off the great west 
London road ; but few people passed down the 
green lane, few even looked that way. The 
cottage was one of those deep thatched old 
dwellings that look like an owl with its feathers 
drawn up over its head ; it had a garden filled 
with flowers and bee-hives, and the straight 
walk leading up to the door was bordered with 
flowering shrubs. Anne worked in the garden, 
clumsily enough at first, and she looked after 
the bees and got stung frequently, and time 
went on. Each week the old woman, Martha 
Hare, who occupied the house along with her, 
received a certain sum of money to be divided 
between herself and Anne ; but Meadowes only 
came occasionally to the cottage at first : he 
was very cautious, having weighed Anne’s 


28 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


character pretty accurately. Then his visits 
became more frequent, and were somewhat 
prolonged, then he brought Anne a present 
from town. Anne began to draw her usual 
conclusions from these things : ‘ He ’s a-making 
up to me,’ she said to Martha Hare. 

But she was scarcely prepared for it when 
Meadowes suddenly asked her one day if she 
would marry him. 

‘ I have been thinking of it for long, Anne,’ 
he said. 

‘ Sir, sir ! ’ said vulgar Anne. ‘ I ’m not 
your kind.’ 

‘ But that is just my difficulty, and if you 
will listen to me I shall explain it. You cannot 
but see, Anne, that you are scarce in my class, 
as you say, and for that reason ’twill be better 
to keep the matter private, else my father will 
cut me off with a shilling. But if you will 
marry me privately, Anne, I swear to you I ’ll 
be a good husband to you.’ 

Anne had been listening intently ; but here 
she suddenly held up her hand. 

‘ There, ’ she cried, ‘ I ’ll have you with no 
promises if I have you at all. I ’ll take you as 
I know you, sir, and trust you but so far as I 
sees you. ’ 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 29 


‘ But you will trust me, Anne ? ’ he said. 

4 No. I ’ll never trust no man again this 
side time. But I ’ll come an’ live along of you, 
sir, if so be I ’m done with work and care for 
ever. ’ 

4 Anne, Anne, do not be so bitter,’ said 
Meadowes. Anne stood looking at him silently 
for a moment, then she laughed. 

4 ’Tis like I’m marrying you for love, sir ? ’ 
she said. 

4 Well, I have done what I could for you,’ 
said Meadowes (but he blushed hotly as he 
spoke. 4 1 am a devil , ’ he said to himself). 

4 You have, sir, one way, but now you’ve 
showed your hand, so to say. I knew as it 
would be this way some day — I ’ve had lovers 
an’ lovers by the score. Not but that you ’ve 
been civil and taken your time, sir. Well, as 
I do say, sir, you be kind and I ’ll take you for 
that. But ’tis not for love, sir. I have no 
heart left in me now, but a stone where it once 
was. A woman she do have two throws o’ the 
dice in her life — one ’s love an’ t’ other ’s money. 
Lose the first ; you ’d best, if you ’re a wise 
woman, have a try for the second, for with 
never the one nor t’ other you be in a sad 


case. 


30 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


Meadowes listened gravely to this, Anne’s 
gospel of prudence. 

4 Well,’ he said at length, 4 that ’s your way 
of thinking, Anne, and mayhap mine is not so 
different — to take what I can get. ’ 

4 What are you gettin’, sir ? ’ asked Anne, 
turning suddenly to him. 4 Lor’ sakes, sir ! 
what hath gone agin you in life that you take 
second best so soon ? ’ 

‘ Second best ? ’ queried Meadowes. 

4 Ay, second best. You ’ll not make me be- 
lieve as how you are wedding for love, sir. ’ 

4 1 — I am very fond of you,’ Meadowes be- 
gan, but Anne stopped him impatiently. 

4 Not you, sir. I ’m rarely fine-looking, an’ 
men be terrible fools. You ’ve a mind to 
marry — that ’ s short and long for it, —but for 
love ’ 

The silence that Anne ended her sentence 
with was more expressive than words. Then 
she turned and laid her hand in his. 

4 Here, sir,’ she said, 4 I ’ll ask no questions. 
Mayhap you ’ve had your story like n^self. 
Leastways you ’ve been kind to me, and I ’ll 
be a good wife to you if you ’re wishful to 
marry with me. Like enough some day we 
may both forget ’ 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 31 


She turned hastily away with a sob that 
would not be kept back. 

4 Shall we say Friday of next week, then, 
Anne ? ’ said Meadowes, passing his arm round 
her and patting her shoulder very kindly. 

4 When you please, sir. ’ 

4 And we shall be married here, not in church, 
for the reason I have mentioned ? ’ 

4 Any place you please, sir.’ 

4 My friend Mr. Prior will marry us. ’ 

4 Any parson you have a mind for, sir.’ 
Meadowes drew Anne closer to him, and 
kissed her lovely tear-stained face. Then he 
bade her good-bye, and she went into the cot- 
tage and sat there face to face with life, as every 
woman is when she makes up her mind on what 
now-a-days we term the Marriage Problem. 

Anne was very clear-sighted ; she saw, as 
every woman with her wits about her must see, 
that it is not good for woman — especially pretty 
woman — to be alone. She saw in 4 Dick Sun- 
don,’ as she called him, a protector whom she 
had every reason to like. In the bitterness of 
her heart she had vowed never to trust any 
man again, but she must have had some vague 
feeling of confidence in this kindly bright-eyed 
suitor, else Anne would have hesitated more 


32 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


than she did before coming to her decision. 
She had hitherto been rather suspicious of the 
attentions of 4 fine gentlemen, ’ as she termed 
them, but this offer of marriage seemed hon- 
ourable to a degree. 4 I ’ll never forget Sebas- 
tian — not for all he hath done by me — but may- 
hap I ’d be happier wedded to Dick Sundon 
than living alone all my days. Oh, lie ’s kind 
enough for certain, an’ free with his money, 
and now he do wish to marry me what better 
can I do ? ’ she asked herself. 

Unanswerable arguments. 

Meadowes, on his part, went home profoundly 
miserable. For the sinner who would sin en- 
joyably must be of another stuff from that of 
which this man was made. Just as he had 
achieved success, his heart turned with a per- 
fectly genuine emotion of pity towards the 
woman he had deceived so cruelly. 

Yet on he went. 

That evening he called upon his friend Mr. 
Simon Prior, at his rooms in Piccadilly. 

‘A somewhat late visitor, I fear, Prior,’ he said. 

4 Never too late to be welcome,’ said Prior. 

4 Well, I am come on business, which must be 
my excuse,’ said Meadowes. lie sat down, and 
Prior waited to hear what the business might be. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 33 


4 The fact is, I wish you to do me a favour, 
— I wish your assistance to the carrying out of 
— of an affair of some delicacy. ’ 

4 1 shall be delighted ; but I find it difficult 
to imagine . . . my money affairs,’ . . . be- 
gan Prior, whose one idea of a difficulty was 
money. 

4 1 had best make a long story short,’ said 
Meadowes, 4 1 want you to act cleric for me ; 
I ’ve seen your powers of mimicry ere this, and 
I swear you’d play the parson to a nicety.’ 

4 Phew ! ’ whistled Prior. 4 So ’ tis a woman 
is the difficulty ; but why, Meadowes, if I may 
intrude upon your secrets, why do you demand 
a parson ? ’ 

4 Ah ! there is my difficulty. There are 
women, you see, who value their good name, 
and this woman is of the number. ’ Tis unfor- 
tunate, but a fact I cannot get over. She hath 
promised to be my wife, however, and I have 
explained to her that family reasons make a 
private marriage necessary at present. I trusted 
to you for the rest of it. ’ 

Simon Prior leant back in his chair and eyed 
his visitor narrowly. 

4 And what are you going to give to me in 
return for these valuable services ? ’ he said. 


34 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


Meadowes leant forward — his bright eyes 
blazed in the lamplight. 

‘I’ll pay every debt you have, if that will 
do,’ he said. 

Prior went through a quick mental sum. 

‘ Yes, that will do,’ he said, when it had 
been added up. ‘ I have played many a part, 
and have no doubt I could acquit myself with 
credit in this. I ’ll go to church and hear the 
parson’s drawl (I ’ve not heard it this many a 
year), and I ’ll reproduce it for you whenever 
you please with becoming gravity. ’ 

‘ Thanks ! I ’ve no manner of doubt you 
will. Then you will tell me what I owe you ? 
And, by the way, this matter must never cross 
your lips, Prior ; I may trust you for that ? ’ 

‘ You may.’ 

‘ Then on Saturday of next week, all being 
well ? ’ 

‘ On Saturday of next week, all being well,’ 
repeated Prior, in such a startling reproduction 
of Meadowes’ voice that both men laughed 
aloud. 

But laughter was not in Meadowes’ heart 
though it was on his lips. He rose to say 
good-night soon after, and Simon Prior lay 
back in his arm-chair and smiled. 




CHAPTER Y 


Perhaps it was because he felt the knot so 
obligingly tied by Simon Prior not quite im- 
possible to untie, that Richard Meadowes took 
his marital obligations very lightly. He was 
well pleased with his new acquisition, and used 
to ride out from town constantly to see Anne. 
They would walk out together in the long 
spring twilights, and gradually Anne began to 
lose her dread of such a fine lover and spoke to 
him freely and naturally. 

Anne could be a very amusing companion ; 
for she had quick wits ; and that for compan- 
ionship is far better than being well educated. 
She would tell Meadowes all about her life ; 
excepting one episode only, no . mention of 
which ever crossed her lips— of the men who 
had courted her, and the women who had hated 
her, of the straits of poverty, and all she had 
seen and suffered and enjoyed in her five-and- 
twenty years’ pilgrimage. In return, she 


3G A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


would ask Meadowes about the unknown world 
to which he belonged. Had they always 
enough to eat without thinking about it or 
working for it ? (‘ Lord sakes, how grand ! ’) 

Had they never to walk when they were weary, 
or toil when they were faint ? Was it possible 
he had never known what it was to be cold for 
want of clothing, or run out of fuel in the win- 
ter ? (‘ You scarce know you ’re alive ! ’) Or, 

sorest strait of all, was it possible he had never 
known sickness and want together ? (‘You 5 ve 
not felt the Lord’s hand on you yet then, 
Dick.’) And she would listen with delight to 
Meadowes’ tales of his world. Outwardly, in- 
deed, Anne was cheerful enough now ; Mead- 
owes began to think she was forgetting the 
past. Only her entire silence about Sebastian 
Shepley seemed to mark any feeling on the 
subject. Yet every now and then he fancied 
she was thinking of her former lover. Once as 
they walked together down the lane on a lovely 
summer night— the birds were singing as if 
their little throats would burst, the year’s 
jubilee was at its height— Meadowes turned to 
her in his sudden, impulsive way. 

‘ ’Tis fine to be alive and young,’ he said ; 
‘ and the birds sing like the angels of Paradise ! ’ 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 87 


‘ I think to have heard the sparrows in the 

Green Park >’ Anne began to say, almost as 

if she were speaking to herself— then she broke 
off in the middle of her sentence and turned 
away. A moment later she added — 

‘ You do speak rarely clear, Dick — for all the 
world like a flute’s note. I like to hearken to 
your voice better than them birds by far. ’ 
Meadowes was charmed with this pretty 
speech ; he flung his arm round Anne’s waist 
and kissed her. She looked up at him with 
her brown eyes full of tears ; but they may 
have been tears of mirth, for all she said was, 
4 Good sakes ! but men be mortal vain,’ and 
with that she drew herself away from his em- 
brace. 

4 Why should she cry over the sparrows in 
the Green Park ? ’ Meadowes wondered ; how 
should he know how often Anne had walked 
there with Sebastian Sliepley ? 

Time wore on, summer merged into autumn, 
and still Anne had never spoken once to Mead- 
owes about Sebastian Sliepley ; they were the 
best of friends, Anne welcomed his coming and 
mourned at his going, but without a trace of 
sentiment, as Meadowes found himself forced 
to admit. Men do not like a want of sentiment 


38 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


in women : they may condone it in their own 
sex, it is considered an essential in onrs ; so 
Meadowes, who had never blamed himself for 
lacking this quality, found it in his heart to be 
surprised and a little indignant with Anne for 
doing so. ‘ She should be beginning to care 
more for me by now,’ - he thought ; he had 
been a very devoted husband. 

It was devotion indeed, which urged him to 
ride out from London one cruel night of wind 
and rain. The miles seemed as though they 
would never be got over ; yet Meadowes rode 
on and on, out into the deep country, his head 
bowed before the lashing of the rain and the 
onslaught of the wind. At the Cross Roads 
Inn he dismounted, and leaving his horse there, 
strode on through the darkness to Anne’s cot- 
tage. 

4 Good sakes, Dick, is it you ! ’ cried Anne 
at sound of his knock. She flung open the 
door and he passed in, into the warmth and 
stillness of the cottage kitchen, where he stood 
laughing and breathless, the water dripping 
from his drenched clothes on to the sanded 
floor. Anne, exclamatory and sympathetic, 
stood beside him. 

4 ’Tis wetted through and through you are, 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 39 


Dick,’ she said, wringing the flap of his riding- 
coat. 4 For the love of heaven go and cast 
these wet clothes from off yon, while I do heat up 
some ale for you on the fire. There be naught 
like hot ale for chills. Good lack ! to think of 
mortal man riding from London this night ! ’ 

Meadowes laughed. 4 I shall be none the 
worse, Anne. But not hot ale — mulled claret 
for me, my girl.’ 

4 1 have no knowledge of your fine sour- wine 
drinks, Dick. For certain the hot ale be far 
wholesomer,’ urged Anne, who clung to tradi- 
tion as surely as Meadowes. 

So to please her hot ale he drank, sitting by 
the wide cottage fireplace listening to the driv- 
ing storm. The candle, which had been low in 
its socket, burned lower ; then Anne put it out, 
and still they sat silently in the pleasant fire-lit 
room and heard the storm rave on outside. 
They were sitting side by side on the settle by 
the fire, Meadowes had his arm round Anne’s 
shoulder in his kindly caressing fashion, but 
though Anne permitted the endearment she 
did not respond to it in any way. 

4 You are very quiet to-night ? ’ said Mead- 
owes at last. Anne shivered, and bent forward 
to stir up the fire for answer. 


40 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


4 What ails you, Anne ? Has aught dis- 
tressed you through the day ? ’ he asked. 

Anne turned round and looked at him ; her 
eyes had a curiously wild, frightened expression. 

4 ’Tis like great guns,’ she said. 4 There, 
there. O Lord, I can’t a-bear to hear it — guns 
and guns a-thundering on, and when it cometh 
round the corner o’ the house ’tis for all the 
world like the shrieks of dying men. ’ 

Meadowes was mystified by her words. He 
had never seen Anne fanciful before. 

4 Well, what of it ? — ’tis not unlike heavy 
firing, as you say,’ he admitted. 4 But you 
are safe enough here, my girl, in all truth.’ 

4 Eh, Dick ! don’t you understand ? ’ cried 
Anne. 4 Battles, and guns, and all. ... I 
do seem to hear from over seas, from Flanders, 
bringing to my mind all I ’ve a mind to forget. 
I ’ve sat all this day a-hearing of them guns, 
and times I ’d stop my ears. — O Lord ! there 
be the screams again. ’ And Anne, turning to 
the only helper she had, held out her hands to 
him with a trembling, childish gesture. 

4 Dick, Dick, ’ she said, 4 you be quick to feel 
all things, and kind too, more nor I deserve, I 
that have married you, and my heart turning 
back to another. ’ 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 41 


Quick to feel, Meadowes was feeling a hun- 
dred conflicting sensations at that moment. 
But first of all he must quiet Anne. 

4 Come, Anne, 5 he said, 4 you are tired and 
fanciful. ’Tis time you were gone to bed, and 
by the morning you will have forgot the storm 
that scares you now. Ah, I understand alto- 
gether, Anne ; aye, and feel for you too. But 
these things are better left alone, it but makes 
them harder to speak of them. ’ 

4 Maybe, maybe, ’ said Anne, rising to put a 
fresh candle in the candlestick. She had ap- 
pealed to 4 Dick ’ in vain, she thought, and 
would not attempt to make him understand. 

4 I have some letters to write,’ said Mead- 
owes, dismissing the subject ; 4 1 shall sit up 
and finish them.’ 

When Anne had gone, however, there, was 
not much letter-writing done. Meadowes sat 
and looked into the fire, coming to several con- 
clusions. Well, here was the end of his amour ; 
up to this time he had been quite content with 
Anne, delighted with her ; but now— he simply 
could not stand this. If she was going to be 
always thinking about Sebastian Shepley, and 
even mentioning him, it was high time that the 
connection between himself and her was at an 


42 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


end. Meadowes, who was a very fastidious 
man, shuddered at the whole situation. ‘ Hor- 
rible ; truly ’twas in Providence I did not 
marry her,’ he said. Yet he had quite enough 
of conscience to make it a difficult matter for 
him to break with Anne. He dreaded beyond 
measure her anger when she found herself to 
have been so duped. It was indeed almost im- 
possible to contemplate telling her. How 
would it best be done ? Offer her money ? 
Anne would never consider that a recompense. 
Just leave her ? ‘ Even I am not bad enough 

for that ! ’ Trust to time ? Time would pos- 
sibly make matters worse. Yet after hours of 
thought on the subject this last and very lame 
conclusion was the one which Meadowes finally 
adopted. He resolved not to see so much of 
her now and— -to wait. 

‘ A plague upon Sebastian Shepley, and a 
plague upon Constancy and Love and all the 
Virtues ! ’ he said as he rose from his chair at 
last ; 4 and equally a plague upon Richard 
Meadowes, and Treachery and Passion and all 
the Vices,’ he added, as he stood looking down 
at the last embers of the wood- fire that glowed 
on the hearth. He gave an angry kick to the 
red ashes with the toe of his riding-boot that 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 43 


sent a shower of scarlet sparks up into the air ; 
they fell down a moment later in soft grey ash, 
and the fire was out. 

4 The end of all hot fires, ’ said Mead owes, as 
he groped his way across to the door. 


CHAPTER VI 


4 Business,’ Meaclowes explained to Anne a few 
days after this, 4 was taking him out of Lon- 
don.’ His absence, too, might be somewhat 
prolonged. He left ample means with his 
friend Mr. Prior ( 4 the parson who wedded us, 
Anne ’), and these moneys were to be forward- 
ed by him to Anne at regular intervals ; she 
would want for nothing. Anne took the news 
quietly, as was her way, and hoped his business 
might delay 4 Dick ’ "a shorter time than he 
anticipated. 

Meadowes, however, knew his own mind 
now, and was quite decided as to the length of 
time he would be absent from Anne. In the 
spring a child would be born to them, and after 
that he would come and tell her everything ; 
till then it might be brutal to disturb her pres- 
ent peace of mind. But after the event it must 
be done, and the sooner the better. This had 
been his ultimate decision. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 15 


Still, decisions being more easily taken than 
put into execution, Anne had been a very proud 
and happy mother for some eight weeks before 
Meadowes found it possible to speak to her of 
the matter of their supposed marriage. And 
even then his hand was, so to speak, forced. 
He had ridden out from town in haste one sum- 
mer morning, and now sat in the porch with 
Anne, wondering why after all he had come, 
for tell her he could not, though he had started 
with the determination to do so. 

‘ For certain, Dick, you be mighty silent,’ 
said Anne at last, looking up from her sewing. 

£ I am annoyed over business,’ said Meadowes 
lamely, looking down at the ground. 

‘ And a fine packet of letters unopened in 
your pocket too,’ laughed Anne, pointing with 
her needle at the bundle as she spoke. 

6 I rode off in such haste,’ began Meadowes 
absently, then he took the letters from his 
pocket and turned them over one by one. 

‘ From my lawyer — from Simon Prior — 

from ’ He stopped short and looked hard 

at the third letter, shook his head, and broke 
the seal to glance at its contents. 

‘Lor’, Dick! what hath come to you?’ 
cried Anne, throwing aside her work a moment 


46 A DAUGHTER OF STEIFE 


later, for she had caught sight of his face ; it 
was grown suddenly grey and rigid. She 
stepped behind him, laying her hand on his 
shoulder, and glanced down at the sheet of 
paper he held. 

‘Nothing, Anne — a mere joke,’ said Mead- 
owes quickly, crumpling up the paper as if 
Anne could have read what was written on it. 

4 Dick, that ’s a word from Sebastian Shep- 
ley, so sure as I do stand here, ’ said Anne, her 
voice shaking ; ‘I do know the looks of his 
name upon the sheet, for ’twas all ever I could 
read for myself of his letters, an’ many ’s the 
one I had. ’ 

4 Shepley ? what would Shepley write to me 
of ? ’ asked Meadowes hotly, rising and walk- 
ing away down the garden-walk towards the 
gate. But Anne would not be put off. She 
followed him down the walk and laid her hand 
on his arm. 

4 Tell me, Dick,’ she said ; 4 I had a deal 
rather hear straight all he hath to say.’ 

4 1 swear to you ’ Meadowes began ; but 

Anne interrupted him. 

4 Then you swear false, Dick : ’tis writ by 
Sebastian’s own hand, or my name be not Anne 
Sundon. Best tell me what he saith.’ 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 47 


4 The letter is from a man Steven Shackleton, 
Anne. You mistook the lettering, being no 
scholar, 5 persisted Mead owes, lying desperately 
now, his courage had so withered when brought 
to the point. 

Anne faced round upon him ; her big clever 
brown eyes seemed to be reading into his very 
soul. 

4 You’re makin’ up tales, Dick,’ she said. 
4 You won’t look me in the eyes and tell me 
that ’s not Sebastian’s hand of write.’ 

* 

4 There,’ cried Meadowes, facing round to 
meet her eyes directly. 4 The letter was 

from ’ Iiis glance fell to the ground, as 

he added, 4 Steven Shackleton ’ again. 

4 If so be you speak straight ’ Anne be- 

gan. But Meadowes with an impatient excla- 
mation cut her short. 

4 What do you take me for ? Well, I must 
be off. A fool I was to leave town without 
reading my letters, for back to it I must go in 
a couple of hurries. Come, bid me good-b} r e, 
Anne,’ he added, bending down towards her. 

4 Good-bye,’ said Anne absently, turning 
away into the cottage. 

She sat beside the baby’s cradle, rocking it 
slowly, and gazed down at the floor. What 


48 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


did all this confusion and contradiction on 
Dick’s part mean ? Why did he look like 
that, as scared as though he had seen a ghost ? 
And why was he so angry, and why again so 
flushed ? 

Dick meantime was riding back to London 
at a great pace — riding as if the devil himself 
rode behind him. But when he reached town 
it was to ask himself why he had come there ; 
for deep down in his heart he knew that the 
time had come, and that tell Anne he must — 
yes, the whole black truth from first to last. 
He had ridden away from her searching truth- 
compelling eyes, but they followed him still, 
and back he must go and have done with it all. 
Why would the earth not open and swallow 
him up ?— Ah, happy Dathan and Abiram ! 


CHAPTER VII 


The day passed slowly for Anne after Dick had 
left. Her mind was troubled by vague half- 
formulated doubts. Had Dick spoken truly, 
or had he lied to save her pain ? Surely, surely 
she could never mistake Sebastian’s signature, 
the same she had gazed at so often, and kissed, 
aye, and wept over also. She revolved these 
questions in her mind all day and found no sat- 
isfactory answers to them ; when she lay down 
at night, one insistent suggestion whispered on 
in her ear, ‘ Why did Dick look like that ? 
Was he lying ? Did ever man look so mazed 
and scared when he spoke the truth ? 5 Then 
Anne’s tired eyes closed and she entered the 
beautiful dream-world. Now the dream-world 
holds sensations of indescribable vividness not 
attainable on the earth-world ; here experiences 
come within the scope of words, there 'we ex- 
perience the inexpressible. 

In a dream, then, in a vision of the night, 


50 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


when deep sleep had fallen upon her, Anne 
dreamed and thought she awoke in Paradise. 
For Sebastian came to her (out of nowhere, 
after the fashion of dreams), and their souls 
seemed fused together in a warm silence. Not 
a word was spoken between them ; yet the 
miserable past was blotted out for ever ; a great 
light shone everywhere — a glow, a heat of for- 
giveness, a passion of fulfilment at last ; and 
the beautiful thrilling silence of it all ! They 
seemed alone in hollow space, out of reach of 
this world’s hubbub. What need of explana- 
tions when all was understood ? Her thoughts 
rested on that splendid wordless vacancy. 

‘ Sure I be in heaven at last ! ’ said poor Anne. 

‘ A fine heaven too, that quiet as it is ! The 
old one as I used to hear on was all noise o’ 
trumpets an’ hosannas — here ’s heaven in- 
deed, with this grand quiet as is to go on for 
ever. ’ 

Anne woke suddenly then — the appalling 
conviction of a dream was upon her : she might 
have spoken face to face with her dear lover, 
so vividly present he had seemed, such a sud~ 
den assurance of his faithfulness had come to 
her. She sat up in bed and called out aloud in 
the quiet room— 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 51 


‘ Lord ! be it a dream ? Sebastian dear, 
what ’s this I ’m feelin’ ? Have Dick Snndon 
fooled me out an’ out a-tellin’ lies of you all 
this long time ? Help me, am I losing my 
judgment ? ’ 

She rose up, groped her way across the dark 
room, and drew back the window -curtain. 
The first streaks of day were showing in the 
sky, the peaceful wooded land was half shroud- 
ed still in the mists of morning. With long 
whistling notes the birds gave welcome to the 
coming day ; they called to each other, near at 
hand, and far off among the blossoming thick- 
ets, like happy spirits that sing together in the 
fields of joy. Anne leaned from the window 
and listened to these songs that went up so 
straight into the dim blue morning skies. A 
great fear held her fast, — the fear that Dick, 
her husband, her helper, had deceived her. 
In her dismay and bewilderment she could only 
repeat again and again, ‘ Lord help me, Lord 
help me,’ scarcely knowing what she said. 
Then, afraid to lie down again, she dressed and 
went down-stairs and into the garden. Far off 
on the London road she heard the distant trot- 
ting ol a horse and the roll of wheels ; some 
one must be driving along in the quiet morning 


52 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


dimness. Anne stepped down the little walk 
and stood leaning against the gate. 

The wheels came nearer, and then came 
down the lane. Anne turned away, for even 
in that dim light the passers-by must see her 
tears. 

Then she heard the chaise stop at the gate ; 
Dick’s voice — how clear it sounded in the early 
stillness !— was speaking to the post-boy. 

4 There, my man ; that ’s for your trouble all 
a dark night.’ 

4 Thank you, sir — thanks to you,’ said the 
boy as the chaise rattled off. 

Anne turned and came down the little walk 
to meet Dick ; her gown brushed the dew from 
the overgrown rose-bushes in showers as she 
passed. She came towards him silently, her 
face tear-stained, tragic. Dick held out both 
hands to her, but before he could speak Anne 
checked him with an upraised hand. 

4 God’s spoke to me, Dick,’ she said, stop- 
ping before him like an avenging angel. 

4 1 have come to tell you everything,’ said 
poor Dick ; and at that moment he drank the 
dregs of a bitter cup, 4 for I knew you guessed 
something when I left you. ’ 

4 God spoke to me in a dream,’ repeated 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 53 


Anne. 6 When I waked up I knew for sure 
you had lied to me.’ 

‘ Yes, Anne, I lied,’ he said, almost in a 
whisper. 

‘ About Sebastian ? ’ 

£ Yes.’ 

‘ An’ he never played me false, nor married 
a Dutch wife ? ’ 

‘ Never. ’ 

c Come, ’ said Anne. ‘ Come then an’ try if 
you can speak truth this once. ’ She pointed to 
the seat by the bee-hives, and in silence they 
crossed over to it and sat down. 

‘ Tell me now, ’ said Anne. 

Dick leant forward and began his story, and 
a pitiful story it was. Now that he was face 
to face with the worst he made no attempt at 
extenuation of his falsity ; he might have been 
reading off the words from a printed page, they 
came so straight from his lips, his flute-clear 
voice never hesitated once till the whole 
was told. Anne on her part listened quietly 
enough ; without the usual exclamatory inter- 
ruptions which her sex commonly indulge in. 
When the story was done there was a mo- 
ment’s silence, before she said, speaking very 
low — 


54 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


4 Eh ! but I ’ve been a bitter fool.’ She rose 
then and stood looking down at Dick. 

4 I ’m goin’ now, ’ she said. 4 If I ’m no 
man’s wife, at least I ’ll be no man’s mistress. 
An’ for the child, yon ’d best care for him 
yourself. You ’ll maybe make him as good a 
man as his father some day. ’ 

Dick sprang up and caught her hand. 
4 Anne, Anne,’ he cried, 4 you must see how it 
is — you must understand — I scarce knew all 
your feeling for Sheplev at first — I thought 
you had forgot — I thought women forgot al- 
ways — I had not realised — not until that night 
you spoke of him — and then, then I could not 

bear it, and I resolved to tell you truly. I ’ 

4 Oh, you ’ve acted mighty true for certain,’ 
said Anne quietly. 

4 I have indeed told you all the truth ’ 

4 Yes, now.’ 

4 But, Anne, men are mortal — will fall before 
temptation. ’Tis hard to blame us too cruelly. ’ 
4 O yes ; for certain men be mortal. ’ 

4 1 shall in truth provide for you all your 
days, Anne ; I thought of no other thing. ’ 

4 Will you, sir ? ’ said Anne, with a curious 
smile, and Meadowes, not catching its meaning, 
pursued eagerly — 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 55 


4 All your days truly, Anne ; you shall have 
all that woman can wish, if you will but par- 
don me.’ 

Anne stood looking at him in a curious dis- 
passionate way for a moment. 

4 1 ’d sooner starve,’ she said then, shortly. 

4 But, Anne, you can never suppose that I 
would let you want, after all there has come 

and gone between us, aftel* ’ 

Anne smiled again her curious smile, and 
shook her head. 

4 A strange man you be for certain, Dick,’ 
she said; 4 kind an’ tender when you’ve a 
mind to be, and one as feels quick. She paused 
before adding slowly, ‘And just as false as hell. ’ 
Meadowes winced under the words, but he 
went on, 4 False or no, Anne, I must provide 
for you — for you and the child. ’ 

4 For the child mayhap, never for me,’ said 
Anne. 4 You’d best see after him,, for he’ll 
be set down to your account when all things is 
squared. See you train him up to be so good a 
man as you are, Dick. ’ 

4 Then do you not wish to care for your son 
yourself, Anne ? ’ asked Meadowes incredu- 
lously, for, up to this time, Anne had doted on 
the boy. 


56 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


4 Ho more I do. He be your son, Dick, and 
’tis for you to fend for him. ’ 

4 Then ’ Meadowes hesitated, waiting 

for Anne to make her intentions known. 

4 1 ’ve worked before, and now I ’ll work 
again ; and if so be I get no work, then I ’ll 
starve, as I’ve starved before,’ said Anne 
quietly. 4 Martha ’s kind and up in years, best 
leave the boy with her. ’ 

4 Are you going to leave him ? ’ 

4 Yes, an’ never see him nor you again,’ said 
Anne. She turned away into the house with- 
out another word, and Meadowes heard her go 
up-stairs and move about in her room gather- 
ing a few possessions together. She came out 
again before long, carrying a little bundle. 

4 Good-bye, Dick,’ she said, holding out her 
hand to him ; 4 good-bye to the part on you as 
was kind to me — the rest be rotten bad. ’ 

4 It cannot be you are really going, Anne. ’ 

4 Good-bye,’ said Anne for answer, and she 
walked away down the lane and turned off at 
the opening that led into the London road. 


CHAPTER VIII 


On a warm summer evening, some three weeks 
later, Richard Meadowes sat in the library of 
his town house thinking, perhaps not unnatu- 
rally, of Anne Champion and wondering where 
she was. 

4 Dr. Sebastian Shepley, to wait upon you, 
sir, ’ said the man-servant, showing some one 
in, and Meadowes rose to greet his visitor, feel- 
ing the room strangely warm. 

4 Ah, Shepley,’ was all he said for welcome 
to the tall steady-eyed man who came forward 
into the room. 

Shepley sat down opposite to Richard Mead- 
owes and facing the sunlight. His pleasant 
blue eyes rested on Meadowes inquiringly for a 
moment. 

4 1 fear I have intruded on you, sir, ’ he said, 
noticing the other man’s embarrassment. 

4 1 — I am pleased to see you, ’ said Meadowes, 
not with absolute veracity. The' situation 


58 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


seemed at that moment intolerable to him — 
better, he thought, make a quick end of it. 

4 You have heard about Anne Champion ? ’ 
he said, forcing himself to look straight at 
Sebastian Shepley. 

4 I am come for no other reason than to ask 
your aid in the matter,’ said Shepley, 4 for the 
last I have heard of Anne was the message of 
thanks you gave me from her anent the amber 
necklace. Often as I ’ve writ to her I have 
heard never a word in answer. Tell me, sir, 
do you know aught of where she went ? ’ 

4 I know naught of Anne now,’ said Mead- 
awes, looking down as he spoke. 

4 Now f ’ asked Shepley, for something in 
the other’s voice attracted his attention. 

4 A year and more she lived with me, and 
she bore me a son,’ said Meadowes. 

There was a moment of silence that seemed 
to tingle. 

4 There — swallow your lies ! ’ cried Shepley ; 
and he struck with all his great strength across 
Meadowes’ lips. Without another word he 
left the room, passed out through the hall, and 
strode away down the Square. 

4 Lies, lies — hellish black lies every word he 
spoke,’ he cried in his heart. 4 And ah ! my 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 59 


poor Annie, what is come to you these weary 
years ? ’ Then remembering that Anne’s 
neighbours in Yard’s Entry might have some 
knowledge of her whereabouts he turned his 
steps in that direction. 

It was drawing to sundown when at last he 
reached Yard’s Entry. He stood still for a 
moment and looked up at the little window he 
had known as Anne’s, and which used to reflect 
the sunlight. It was blazing scarlet just now. 
Then he went up to the doorway and knocked ; 
Mrs. Hare appeared in answer to his summons. 

‘ A good even to you, mistress,’ said Shep- 
ley. ‘ And can you tell me aught of Anne 
Champion, who lived here some two years 
since ? ’ 

Mrs. Hare squinted up at him out of her nar- 
row old eyes. 

‘ Anne, she came back here some three weeks 
agone,’ she said. ‘ Came and went her ways 
a^ain. And now she hath come here mortal 
stricken — taken with a fever she ’ve caught 
working amidst the rags for a Jew man in 
Flower and Dean Street.’ 

Sebastian waited to hear no more ; he ran 
up the dark stair and unceremoniously opened 
the door of Anne’s room. 


60 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 

Such a blaze of light smote across his eyes as 
he came in that he was half -blinded, for the 
skies were scarlet that night from a great sun- 
set, and all the room was lit up with the red 
glow. He stood for a moment in the doorway 
shading his eyes from the dazzle, then stepped 
across the crazy old floor, that creaked and 
gave under his heavy tread. 

‘ Annie, Annie ! ’ he cried, kneeling down 
beside her. 

For Anne, she thought she dreamed again ; 
the weary tossings of the desolate day were 
done — she tasted a supreme felicity. What if 
with the breaking day the vision fled, and she 
woke again to want and loneliness ? enough 
that now it tarried with her. She would not 
move, she scarcely dared to breathe for dread 
lest the dream should depart ; but lay very 
still and felt the kindly strength of Sebastian’s 
arm support her, and his cool hard cheek 
pressed against hers that burned with fever. 
4 Annie,’ he said again, and this time Anne 
opened her eyes and smiled. 

‘ Eh, Sebastian, Sebastian, my dear man, 
stay — stay one minute, for dreams be terrible 
short,’ she cried. Nor would all Shepley’s 
words reassure her of his actual presence. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 61 


‘ So many days as I’ve lain here, an’ such 
dreams and dreams ! Lor’ ! them was dreams ! 
You and Dick Sundon, Dick Sundon an’ you, 
back and fore you came and went the two of 
you. Sometimes Phil ’ud he there too (Phil 
my boy as is) — (Lord Christ, have a care on 
Phil, being that he’s so young and with none 
but Dick Sundon a-carin’ of him !) . . . then 
I ’d dream of Dick for hours and hours, an’ now, 
Sebastian, ’tis you ; Lord send this dream stays ! ’ 

Shepley knelt beside her, listening to all her 
strange babble of ‘ Dick ’ and 4 Phil ; ’ but 
feeling how the fever ran hot in her blood he 
pushed back the fears that came to him with 
her words. He looked round the room, with 
the stamp of relentless poverty set everywhere 
on it, and thanked Heaven he was there now. 
For poor Anne lay on the bare boards of this 
place that was now her shelter, and for cover- 
ing she had thrown over her the dress she had 
taken off. Ho trace of meat or drink was to 
be seen anywhere. 

As he sat thus taking in the bareness of poor 
Anne’s sick-room, with a perfunctory little 
knock the door was shoved open and Mistress 
Hare came in. She walked across the floor on 
tiptoe and stood looking at Anne. 


62 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


4 The fever hath gotten that hold on her 
blood ’twill burn her up before the week is 
out,’ she said sagely, winking across at Sebas- 
tian. 4 And by your leave, sir, I ’d make bold 
to say you ’d best sit farther off from her— ’t is 
a catching sickness I dare swear. ’ 

4 1 am come here to cure her,’ said Sebastian ; 
‘I am a surgeon to my trade. ’ 

4 For certain then, sir, you ’ve come too late,’ 
croaked the old woman. 

Sebastian rose angrily. 

£ Have a care what you say, ’ he exclaimed. 

4 And now, if you ’ 11 do me a service, you shall 
go and buy all that Anne Champion needs — a 
bed to lie on ’ 

4 And die on,’ interpolated Mrs. Hare vi- 
ciously, but Sebastian gave no heed to her 
remark, only went on with his enumera- 
tion : — 

4 And blankets to cover her, and food to eat 
and wine to drink— all these things she must 
have before the day is done ; so hasten you — 
if so be you wish for this. ’ He drew from his 
pocket a coin and laid it in the old woman’s 
hand. 

4 A bed and blankets. Food and wine and 
fire,’ repeated Mistress Hare. 4 Good lack, 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 63 


sir, dyin’ Anne she ’ve not got so much as will 
buy a shroud to wrap her in ! ’ 

‘ Here,’ said Sebastian hastily, shaking out 
from his purse a handful of coins. ‘ How 
much will you require ? ’ Mrs. Hare was con- 
vinced. 

1 Happen three guineas, sir, to begin with, ’ 
she said, and her crooked old fingers closed 
greedily over the yellow coins. 

‘Well, hasten — hasten,’ said Sebastian, and 
Mrs. Hare shuffled off down the stair chuckling 
and curious. 

‘ Dyin’ Annie’s gotten a lover up to the last, 
Matthew,’ she said as she passed her son on the 
stair. So much for maternal jealousy. 


CHAPTER IX 


The vision tarried. Anne never woke to an- 
other lonely day ; always there was Sebastian 
sitting by her, Sebastian holding her hand, 
Sebastian bending over her, wise and tender. 

Whenever the fever left her, Anne was try- 
ing to tell him something — something he would 
not listen to then. But at last one day, lying 
still and white, Anne suddenly spoke. 

‘ Listen to me, Sebastian, ’ she said, £ for I ’ m 
not long for this world; you can’t refuse to 
hear me now.’ And with that she told him 
all her story. Sebastian sat beside her, his 
head bowed upon his hands, listening without 
word or comment. 

‘ Now that I be come to death’s dear, I ’ve 
but the one thought. Dick, he’s a man to 
look out for hisself — and you was ever straight, 
my man ; but w’at ’s to come of Phil ? Lord, 
I’d turn in my grave to think on him ! for 
sure he ’s gotten part o’ my soul, Sebastian — 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 65 


he hath truly.’ Sebastian did not speak, and 
Anne went on — 

4 Dick’ll fend for him an’ no fear — make a 
fine gentleman of him most like — as fine as his- 
self, and then teach him lyin’ ways an’ false 
dealin’s, an’ my boy as hath half my soul he ’ll 
go down into hell with all the liars as find their 
place there, and who ’ s to help ? ’ 

Still Sebastian did not speak. 

4 Eh ! ’ cried Anne, half rising on her pil- 
lows. 4 This once I seen you hard, Sebastian ! 
’Tis no fault o’ the child’s — no, nor mine neither, 
as he ’s there.’ 

4 You can scarce expect me to love him, 
Anne,’ said Sebastian at last. 4 And what 
help can I give the child ? ’ 

4 Eh ! none, none, my man ; maybe Heaven 
’ll help him,’ sobbed Anne, then she turned 
and laid her hands in Sebastian’s. 

4 But as you love me, ’ she said, 4 you ’ll 
make me this vow — you ’ll swear to me if 
ever you can help my poor Phil you ’ll do it ; 
not for his own sake, Sebastian (an’ for- 
gettin’ Dick Sundon an’ all his lies), but for 
mine, as was Phil’s mother, and gave him half 
her soul ? ’ 

4 Annie, Annie, I ’d do more than that for 


60 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


you ! ’ said Sebastian. He prayed her then to 
lie still — she had spoken beyond her strength. 
Anne obeyed, and till late in the day she did 
not speak again, then she spoke suddenly — 
half-wanderingiy this time. 

4 You ’ll live long and happy, Sebastian,’ she 
said ; 4 you ’ll marry, my pretty man, and an- 
other woman but me, she ’ll be the joyful 
mother o’ your sons.’ Then with no change in 
her voice, but as if she suddenly addressed a 
third person in the room, she continued : 4 And, 
God, you ’ll avenge me on Dick Sundon ? 
You understand how it ’s been with me, an’ 
how ’tis impossible I should forgive him ? 
And, Lord, have a care of Phil, and give him 
a white heart — my caring of him be past an’ 
done with now.’ There fell a long silence 
then, poor Anne having disposed of all her 
earthly cares. 

4 Come, Sebastian, ’ she cried, then quickly — 
with that awful chanting voice of the dying — 
and she held out her arms to him. But even 
as he bent down, Sebastian felt a long strain- 
ing shiver pass through her, the sorrows of 
death compassed her, the pains of hell took 
hold upon her. He caught her to his heart for 
a moment, but a Stronger than he was drawing 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 67 


Anne away from his embrace. As their lips 
met she smiled a far-away dreamy smile. 

£ Ha’ done, my man — ha’ done, ’ she said ; 
‘ no more of earth. ’ 

* * * * * 

‘ I ’ll bury Annie,’ said Sebastian, c and then 
I ’ll kill Richard Meadowes.’ 

4f * -5 f * * 

It was in compliance with this resolution that 
Sebastian Shepley, a few days later, waited 
again upon Richard Meadowes. 

Meadowes sat writing at the table with his 
back to the door, but at the sound of its open- 
ing he turned round, and at sight of his visitor 
sprang up ; the two men faced each other 
silently for a moment. Sebastian’s eyes from 
under their overhanging brows flashed like 
blue flames. 

‘ I called you a liar,’ he said, advancing up 
the room, ‘ and for that mistake I crave your 
pardon ; you spoke truth, and now I am come 
to fight you for the truth you spoke. ’ 

4 Fight with you, you damned surgeon ! you 
son of a village leech ! I fight with gentle- 
men ! ’ said Meadowes scornfully. 


68 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


‘ And I with men, so if you are one you had 
best show it,’ retorted Shepley ; and he drew 
the sword that hung at his side with a drawing 
rattle from its sheath. 

There was not much question then between 
them of rank. They fought with savage ha- 
tred on either side ; but from the first the for- 
tunes of the fight followed Sebastian. 

The whole had been ended, and ended with 
it there would also have been the larger half of 
this story, if an unaccountable impulse had not 
moved Sebastian Shepley to mercy. Some- 
thing, perhaps, of the futility of revenge, now 
that Anne was dead and could never know of 
it, came to him of a sudden, and stayed his 
hand. 

‘ There,’ he said. 1 You have your life at 
my hand, for all it may be worth. ’ And he 
turned away as if to leave the house. 

Meadowes leant against the wall, breathing 
hard after the struggle. 

4 Stop— one moment, Shepley, he said, c I — I 
would speak with you ; Anne Champion, if I 
can find her, shall want for naught. ’ 

£ She wants for naught now,’ said Shepley 
shortly. 

‘ But,’ interposed Meadowes, ‘ I should be 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 69 


the man to provide for her, I looked to do that 

always, I had indeed no intention ’ 

‘ Anne Champion is dead,’ said Shepley 
slowly, pansing for a moment on the threshold. 
‘ Anne is dead, and her blood be upon you and 
upon your children. ’ 








i 








































PART II 


* He that hath a wife and children hath given 
hostages to Fortune 



































' 






■' 






























































































* 


















- 











> 







CHAPTER X 


The war was ended, the Peace of Utrecht 
signed, and what remained of our armies after 
the twelve years’ conflict was free to come 
home once more. With the soldiers came back 
the surgeons, to practise in peace the suggestive 
proficiency they had gained in war-time ; and 
cleverest among them all was Dr. Sebastian 
Shepley. 

Like all successful doctors, Shepley owed 
something to his personality. There was that 
in him which inspired others with a sense of his 
capacity. Hot very much of a gentleman, but 
very much of a man ; of gigantic size and easy 
rough address, he suggested all that was most 
cheerful and prosperous in life. Shepley had 
been through half the campaigns of the war, 
and now that peace was proclaimed he had the 
good luck to obtain an appointment under the 
then celebrated Dr. Joseph Barrington of Har- 
ley Street, Surgeon in Ordinary to his newly 


74 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


ascended Majesty King George the First. The 
appointment was a fortunate one for Shepley ; 
but perhaps it was not quite so fortunate for 
Barrington, who found ere long that Sebastian 
Shepley was likely to prove an Absalom who 
would steal away the hearts of fashionable Lon- 
don from himself. But Barrington was very 
magnanimous — strangely magnanimous, — and 
seemed rather to like than to dislike the praises 
that were heaped upon the young man. The 
reason of his magnanimity was not very far to 
seek, nor had he any false delicacy in telling 
Shepley of it ; for, as they sat together one 
day, the older man gave it as his opinion that 
marriage was a prudent step for a young man 
to take before taking up a practice. 

‘ You should in truth be looking out for a 
wife, Shepley,’ he concluded, and he gave a 
suggestive cough. 

‘ Some day, mayhap, sir, some day,’ said 
Shepley. His face fell suddenly into a half 
hard, half tragical expression, very foreign to 
that it generally wore, and he passed his hand 
quickly across his lips. Barrington, a keen ob- 
server of faces, gave a sharp glance at him for 
a moment. 

“ Such wounds, Shepley, are best treated not 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 75 


too tenderly,’ he said. 4 It but keeps them 
open. ’ 

4 There may be truth in that you say, sir, but 
it goes against nature,’ said Shepley. 

‘ Like many a good drastic cure, ’ said Bar- 
rington. 4 Come (if you will have my advice), 
bury this old trouble, whatever it may be, and 
begin life from where you are. Many a happy 
match hath begun coolishly, many an ill one 
hotly : and this is the wisdom of a man old 
enough to be your father. ’ 

4 1 thank you, sir ; I shall give some thought 
to the matter,’ said Shepley, and would have 
changed the subject, but Barrington pur- 
sued — 

4 You scarce need a proof of my goodwill, 
Shepley ; yet I ’ll give you one. There ’s not 
another man in London to whom I would sooner 
give my daughter Emma than yourself. ’ 

4 My dear sir ’ 

4 There, there, I have but given you a piece 
of my mind and something of a hint. Let the 
matter rest. I pray you to be in no haste : no 
prudent marriage was ever yet hasty, nor any 
hasty one prudent ; time, time and thought ’ 

4 Yes, sir, as you say, time and thought — ’tis 
a great step in life,’ said Shepley. But he took 


76 A DAUGHTEE OF STRIFE 


the older man’s hand in his as he spoke, and 
shook it warmly. 

4 I thank you, sir,’ he said. 4 And this story 
you guess at — well, I give you my hand on ’t 
that if ever I marry Emma she hears it all. ’ 

4 Tush ! keep your heart’s history to your- 
self,’ said Barrington, smiling. 4 The woman 
who supposes herself any man’s first love is a 
fool.’ 

Emma, whose name had been thus bandied 
between Sebastian Shepley and her father, was 
the younger of Dr. Barrington’s two daugh- 
ters. The elder daughter, Charlotte by name, 
had married early, and 4 well,’ as the phrase 
goes, having allied her fortunes with those of a 
certain Sir James Mallow, who, though only a 
knight, was the possessor of a handsome in- 
come, and had converted Charlotte from plain 
Miss Barrington without a fortune to 4 My 
Lady ’ with one. The marriage had been a 
source of vast gratification to Emma as well as 
to the fortunate Charlotte, for it seemed to be 
in the very blood and bones of the Barringtons 
to aspire in matters social. Their father’s pro- 
motion to Court practice had given these young 
women another help on the painful uphill path, 
and had made it not only possible but quite 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 77 


natural for them to mention persons of title 
frequently in conversation. Now Emma drove 
out daily in Lady Mallow’s coach, and dreamt 
of even greater splendours to come. She was 
an extremely pretty girl, slim and tall, with 
fine auburn hair and delicate colouring. 4 W ith 
her looks,’ said Lady Mallow, 4 Emma must 
have a baronet.’ And indeed she repeated this 
so often that Emma came to think of the bar- 
onet as a reality, and never contemplated the 
possibility of any suitor of lower degree. 

It gave her, therefore, quite a painful shock 
to discover suddenly one fine day that she was 
beginning to care a great deal about a man who 
was not even distantly connected with a bar- 
onetcy. Emma made this discovery some time 
after Sebastian Shepley had been presented to 
her ; but she put the thought aside at first as 
quite unworthy. To confirm herself in dismiss- 
ing such an idea, she spoke with some sharp- 
ness to Charlotte about the spectral bride- 
groom. 

4 I wish you would in truth present me to a 
baronet, Charlotte, instead of speaking so fre- 
quently of doing so, ’ she said. 

Charlotte was a little nettled by the remark, 
probably because she knew no baronet whom 


78 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


she could present to her sister, yet was unwill- 
ing to acknowledge the fact. 

4 1 take good care to present no man to you 
whom I do not consider suitable to be your 
husband, ’ she said coldly. 

4 I may get tired of waiting,’ said pretty 
Emma. This was all she said then, but some 
months later, in a burst of girlish despair, she 
confided to Lady Mallow what she feared was 
her hopeless passion for Dr. Sebastian Shepley. 

4 I should not care for fifty baronets now,’ she 
concluded, burying her face on Charlotte’s not 
very sympathetic breast. 

4 Tush ! Emma, ’ said her Ladyship ; 4 you 

should look higher ’ She could think of no 

more weighty argument. But Emma could not 
listen even to this. She sobbed and sobbed, 
and prayed Charlotte, if she loved her, to try 
to help her. For a long time Charlotte resisted 
these entreaties, then she determined to tell her 
father the state of the case. 

4 So this is what ails Emma ? ’ he said. 

4 Gad ! but I ’ll make short work with it. 
Shepley is a fine man — no finer surgeon have I 
come across this many a year. If he will take 
Emma he shall have her, and welcome. ’ 

So not very many days later, Dr. Barrington, 


A DAUGHTER OF STEIFE 79 


as you have heard, approached Shepley on the 
subject of marriage. 

At first it seemed as if nothing were to come 
of the conversation ; then quite suddenly Shep- 
ley came one day to announce to Dr. Barring- 
ton that Emma had agreed to marry him. 

4 My blessings on you for a sensible man,’ 
said Barrington. ‘ You were so long about it 
I half feared you would not take my counsel at 
all.’ 

4 1 took it so well that I did not hurry in the 
matter,’ laughed Sebastian. 

He laughed himself down- stairs, laughed his 
adieus to Emma, and swaggered off down the 
street with his fine swinging gait, as gay and 
hearty a man as you might see in all England. 

But oh, inscrutable heart of man ! what 
were these curious old words that so rang in 
his ears ? He seemed to be walking to the 
tune of them. 

4 If 1 forget thee , 5 said the voice of the heart 
that speaks ever whitest truth,— 4 If I forget 
thee , let my right hand forget its cunning. ’ 

And he shook his head and smiled, and looked 
down at his clever right hand. 


CHAPTER XI 


Sebastian and Emma Shepley began their mar- 
ried life in a little house in Jermyn Street — 
‘ small,’ as Emma would have described it, ‘ but 
genteel. ’ It would be impossible to exaggerate 
the pride and pleasure which Emma had in the 
arrangements of her house, and in the fact that 
she was married to the (to her) finest and dear- 
est of men ; but to Sebastian marriage ap- 
peared in a very different light. For him it 
showed as the end of Youth, the voluntary re- 
jection of romance, the light of common day. 
lie had reasoned himself into it ; acknowledg- 
ing (and the man who does this need never 
call himself young again) that he had better 
take what he could get and be thankful for it. 
lie had laid Passion in the grave ; and, turning 
away, he met Life with her resolute face wait- 
ing for him inexorable as of old. Marriage was 
probably the first and most prudent step he 
could take, and Emma was fond of him, and 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 81 


Emma, after all, was pretty. A home, a wife, 
children — these solid anchors of the soul, pre- 
sented themselves almost invitingly to his fancy 
after a time — and farewell to Love and Youth ! 

In these curiously differing moods of mind 
Emma and Sebastian entered into the estate of 
matrimony — Sebastian with his eyes open, 
Emma with hers firmly shut. 

‘ Can two walk together except they be 
agreed ? ’ asks that eternally unanswerable 
book the Bible. Hot comfortably, certainly, 
but they can halt along somehow, far out of 
step it may be, yet on the same road. I am 
afraid that when all was said and done the 
walk of Emma and Sebastian was somewhat 
after this halting kind. For Emma had not 
been married for many weeks before she began 
to see how curiously she disagreed from Sebas- 
tian on almost every point. Strange is the 
glamour of love that she had not found this out 
sooner ! It said something for both of them 
that after having made the discovery Emma 
continued to love her husband as much as ever 
— only, the glamour was gone now. He had 
been to her a faultless romantic hero, she found 
him to be a man with several pronounced faults, 
who frequently offended her taste, who con- 


82 A DAUGHTER, OF STRIFE 


stantly opposed her, who plainly told her that 
he had once loved another woman, and loved 
her memory still. 

Sebastian on his part owned that Emma was 
occasionally quite exasperating to him ; but he 
also acknowledged her entire goodness of heart 
and the excellence of her housekeeping. Their 
marriage in fact was just one of the ordinary 
ruck of marriages ; not unhappy, not ideal — 
merely a little disappointing to Emma, a little 
hardening and coarsening to Sebastian. The 
great bone of contention was of a social nature. 
For gentility was dear as life itself to Emma, 
while to Sebastian all the little affectations and 
conventions which his wife valued so highly 
were the merest moonshine. ITe submitted 
graciously enough to correction in matters of 
etiquette, and laughed with imperturbable good 
humour when Emma called him to task for eat- 
ing with his knife and wiping his lips with the 
back of his hand. But when it came to the 
question of friends and acquaintances matters 
were more complicated. 

Emma had, so to speak, passed her acquaint- 
ances through a fine sieve, and the sifted few 
who came through, they, and they alone, were 
her intimates. Sebastian, on the other hand, 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 83 


had only one reason for making friends with 
any one — whether he liked them or not. As a 
matter of fact he liked the greater part of the 
world, and was liked by them in return, but 
anything like an ulterior end in making ac- 
quaintances was unknown to him. Emma’s 
rules for the making of so-called friends, there- 
fore, filled him with amazement ; while Emma, 
on her part, looked with little short of dismay 
upon the men whom Sebastian welcomed to his 
table. Certainly there was scarcely one among 
all his acquaintance that could have been called 
a gentleman. 4 As why should they, Emma ? 
I am no gentleman myself,’ Sebastian had re- 
torted when taxed with his preference for low 
company. Emma objected most of all to the 
soldiers whom her husband had known abroad, 
and who were continually coming to the house ; 
she might be entertaining her most select lady- 
friends to a dish of tea, and talking the latest 
Court gossip with them, when, into this refined 
circle, and quite undismayed by its frigidly 
genteel atmosphere, would enter Sebastian, 
bringing with him, as likely as not, his friend 
Sergeant Cartwright, or young Tillet the 
bugler, who played at Ramillies. The Sergeant 
had lost an arm at Blenheim, and Emma shrank 


84 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


away instinctively from the empty sleeve he 
wore pinned across his breast ; no historic asso- 
ciation could reconcile her to the presence of 
these men in her parlour, and when they were 
bidden to supper Mrs. Shepley sat at the head 
of the table with an air of studied aloofness 
that was fine to see. Now and then she would 
raise her pretty eyebrows expressively, as when 
Cartwright spat on the floor, or Tillet made use 
of expressions not usually heard in parlours ; 
but she came at last to see that remonstrance 
with Sebastian on this score was useless, and 
resigned herself as best she might to see the 
hero of her first love make merry with such 
friends. 

But perhaps Emma’s sorest moments were 
when those whom she naively termed ‘ persons 
of importance ’ came to visit Sebastian. To 
Emma, every one with a title was a person of 
importance, be they never so unimportant in 
reality, and it seemed to her that Sebastian in- 
tentionally said and did the wrong things to 
such personages. There was one terrible night 
when ‘ a Marquis ’ (enough that the mystic 
dignity was his) honoured the little house in 
Jermyn Street with a visit, and Sebastian, all 
unheeding of coughs and frowns from his wife, 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 85 


must press this exalted visitor to sup with them. 
Now on this ill-fated night Emma had chosen 
to feed her lord and master on pig’s feet and 
fried liver— viands whose price, or rather want 
of price, is almost proverbial. It was, indeed, 
from no sordid motives of economy that Emma 
had so furnished forth her board, but from the 
desire to please Sebastian, whose taste in food 
was incurably vulgar. How could she have 
anticipated that burning moment when her 
faltering tongue must frame the words — 

4 My Lord, may I offer you some of these 
pig’s feet, or mayhap your Lordship would rel- 
ish some of this fried liver more ? ’ 

And as if this was not bitter enough, did not 
Sebastian break into a laugh that shook the 
glasses on the table, crying out — 

4 Faith, Emma, had you known we were to 
entertain the quality to-night, I had not had my 
liver and pig’s feet ! ’ 

Emma smiled faintly, for tears were not far 
off ; and the Marquis, seeing her perturbation, 
told the story of the liver they got at Blen- 
heim, that the officers swore was shoe-leather, 
— 4 A different dish from your fine cookery, 
madam,’ he said, begging for another helping 
of the dish. But it was a life-long lesson to 


86 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


poor Emma : she never ordered liver for supper 
again without a pang of foreboding. 

Then the matter of Church observances had 
arisen between these young people. Emma 
was a devout Church -woman ; Sebastian did 
not hold much to one persuasion or another, 
and certainly was not fond of Church services. 
Emma all her life had gone every Sunday to 
the curious little old church of St. Mary Mino 
ries, and after her marriage expected Sebastian 
to go there with her. The first Sunday morn- 
ing after her marriage Emma came down-stairs 
in her church-going attire, and in rather a 
shocked voice expressed her astonishment to 
find Sebastian smoking by the fire, instead of 
making any preparation for coming with her. 

4 Charlotte will be here in the coach immedi- 
ately,’ she said. ‘ Hasten, Sebastian, we shall 
be late at St. Mary’s..’ 

‘ St. Mary’s 2 ’ queried Sebastian. 

‘ St. Mary Minories, where it hath always 
been our custom to attend divine service — come, 
Sebastian, pray lay aside your pipe ! ’ 

Sebastian leant forward, pressing down the 
tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. He made 
no reply. 

‘ Are you not coming to church ? Perhaps 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 87 


some patients require your care 5 began 

Emma. She came and laid her hand on his 
shoulder in gentle remonstrance. 

1 No, I cannot come. 5 

‘ Mayhap you might come to meet us — you 
think little of such a walk, 5 suggested Emma. 

‘No ! 5 said Sebastian curtly. Emma had 
never seen him so cross before. Her eyes filled 
with tears, and she withdrew her hand from 
his shoulder, and turned away. 

‘ I fear I have displeased you, sir ! 5 she said, 
feeling a sudden inclination to desert this young 
man, who could behave so strangely to her one 
short week after their marriage. But the next 
moment she forgave him ; for Sebastian, at the 
tearful sound of her voice, jumped up and came 
over to where she stood, holding out his hands 
to her. 

‘ Pardon me, Emma ; 5 tis no fault of yours, 
but a fancy of my own, I never pass that way 
an I can help it, Emma — that 5 s all. 5 

4 Why ! 5 began stupid Emma ; but she 

dried her tears. 

4 Because Anne Champion lived therd, and 
there I saw her die, and 1 5 m like to weep tears 
of blood when I pass by that way, 5 said Sebas- 
tian, who, whatever he was, would have no 


88 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


secrets from liis wife, in spite of Dr. Barring- 
ton’s wisdom. 

If Emma had been a crafty woman she would 
have discontinued her attendance at St. Mary 
Minories after this ; but she was not, and in- 
stead, she went there weekly, and very fre- 
quently she would say, 4 Sebastian, if so be that 
you cannot worship along with me, why do 
you not go to some other church ? ’ And 
Sebastian scarcely knew whether to laugh more 
at her singular lack of tact or to be provoked 
by it. 

After this sort of fashion time went on ; and 
then, whatever little differences there may have 
been between the Shepleys, were forgotten for 
a time in the wonderfully uniting interest which 
came to them with the birth of their daughter. 
All Emma’s first admiration for Sebastian re- 
turned to her, when she saw how delightfully 
he played the part of a father. And indeed, to 
see him with this enchanting milky-skinned 
baby in his arms was a sight to please any 
heart ; they looked so wholly incongruous. 

4 Lord ! to think of your fathering such a 
dainty piece of goods, doctor ! ’ exclaimed 
Emma’s pet aversion, the Sergeant, at sight of 
Sebastian and his tiny daughter. Emma was 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 89 


too proud and pleased at the moment to find 
fault with the speech, so, lifting little Miss 
Shepley from her husband’s arms, she brought 
her to be kissed by the Sergeant. 

4 She is very beautiful,’ said the proud mother 
in a conclusive manner, after the salute had 
been very unwillingly given. 4 And we intend 
to name her Caroline, after my mother. ’ 

So let this be my reader’s first introduction 
to Caroline Shepley. 


CHAPTER XII 


All observant (or is it only unobservant ?) per- 
sons must surely have remarked that children 
seem to grow up suddenly in a night like Jack’s 
bean-stalk. The child that only yesterday we 
dandled in our arms, to-day runs about and 
talks with the best of us, and to-morrow he 
will be married, and the day after to-morrow 
his children in their turn will be beginning the 
whole curious magic mushroom-growth over 
again for another generation ! So those who 
only in the last page saw Caroline Shepley in 
long clothes will perhaps not be altogether sur- 
prised to recognise her on this page as a child of 
six years, trotting along the pavements under the 
charge of a very good-looking young nurse-maid. 

Seven years had not changed the ambitions 
of Mrs. Shepley ; but they had been transferred 
during that period, and now she was no longer 
ambitious for herself, but for her beautiful little 
daughter Caroline. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 91 


‘ Carrie must have a maid of her own, like 
other gentlefolk’s children,’ she had said, and 
though her husband laughed at the idea as pre- 
tentious nonsense, he made no further objec- 
tions, and Mrs. Shepley engaged the services 
of a young woman, Patty Blount, whose duty 
it became to walk out daily with little Caroline, 
as is the custom in all well-regulated families. 

Patty, though not eminently conscientious in 
other matters, performed this duty with the 
most praiseworthy regularity. Ho sooner had 
the hall-clock chimed eleven than this punctual 
young person issued from the door of the little 
house in Jermyn Street leading Caroline by the 
hand. Their walks had a curious sameness, 
tending as they almost invariably did in the 
direction of St. James’ Square ; and Carrie, a 
conversational little person, noticed that about 
the hour of their walk Patty was curiously ab- 
sent-minded. She was always looking round 
her, and sometimes would even fairly stand 
still, with an air of expectation as if she were 
waiting for some one. 

At last one morning as they sauntered through 
the Square, the door of one of the houses 
opened, and a young gentleman, Carrie’s senior 
by some four years, came down the steps at- 


92 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


tended by a tall man-servant wearing prune 
liveries. Carrie, who was feeling very dull at 
that moment, poor child, plucked her careless 
companion by the skirt. 

4 See, Patty,’ she whispered ; ‘ there is a boy 
who must be nearly my own age.’ 

Patty was not absent-minded now. She 
seemed to have suddenly wakened up ; and 
giving Carrie that curious dragging shake 
which seems an hereditary action in the nurse- 
maid class, she turned her head pointedly in 
the opposite direction from the approaching 
figures, and hurried Carrie along the Square at 
a great pace. 

‘ You should think shame, Miss Carrie, to 
be a-noticin’ of strangers in the streets,’ she 
said. 

They passed the boy and the tall footman as 
she spoke, and turned the corner of the Square. 
A moment later Carrie heard a voice behind 
them address Patty, and turning round she 
beheld the tall footman walking alongside. 

‘Lor’, Mr. Peter,’ exclaimed Patty, all affa- 
bility and surprise. Then she shoved Carrie 
before her, and the footman shoved his charge 
before him, and they turned back into the 
Square again, apparently by mutual consent. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 93 

The children looked at each other dumbly for 
a moment. 

‘ What ’s your name ? ’ then says Carrie, 
taking the initiative. 

4 Philip-William - Richard -Frederick-Sundon- 
Meadowes. ’ 

4 Oh, that ’s far too long ; I can never say 
that. ’ 

4 Well, Phil they call me.’ 

4 Yes, that will do ; I am called Caroline — I 
was named after my grandmother. ’ 

4 I was named after my grandfather. I 
never saw him ; he was dead long before I 
began. ’ 

4 Was he ? my grandfather is still alive,’ said 
Carrie. 4 But he is not like my father at all ; 
I love my father more than any one.’ 

4 Well, do you know, Caroline, I do not love 
my father at all, ’ said Phil with curious can- 
dour. As he spoke he turned and looked at 
Carrie with a pair of wonderfully glittering 
grey eyes. 

4 O, what strange eyes you have, Phil ! 
Why do they cut into me ? ’ cried Carrie. 

Phil was rather offended. 4 My eyes are 
quite as good as yours, Caroline,’ he said. 4 I 
think I shall return to Peter.’ And with an 


94 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


air of great dignity he feU back a step or two. 
But Peter and Patty were deep in conversation, 
nor would they allow themselves to be inter- 
rupted for all Phil’s dignity. So after a minute 
or two of sullenness, Phil was forced to rejoin 
Carrie, and make overtures of peace by silently 
placing a hand on the hoop she trundled, and 
giving an interrogative grunt. Carrie had 
nothing to forgive : the pavement was clear 
before them for many tempting yards, and off 
they ran with shouts of pleasure. 

4 This is where I live,’ said Phil, as they 
reached the house he had appeared from. 
4 Look, Carrie, when Peter is in good temper, 
or if I can catch my father as he goes out, I 
can get them to put me on their shoulders, and 
then I am so high up that I can get my hand 
into the torcli-snuffer ; it comes out black, I 
can tell you ! ’ 

Carrie looked longingly at the torch-snuffer ; 
she too would have liked to blacken her plump 
white fingers. 

4 ShaU I ask Peter ? he looks pleased,’ said Phil. 

4 Do,’ urged Carrie in great excitement,. peer- 
ing up into the snuffer. 4 ’Tis like an iron 
nightcap,’ she added. 

4 ’Tis not often Peter will do it, for you see 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 95 


he has to wash my hands,’ said Phil. 4 Father 
is better. O good luck, Carrie, here he 
comes ! 5 for as the children stood together on 
the steps, the great door with its iron knocker 
swung open, and a man came out, closing the 
door behind him. 

4 Hillo, Phil ! alone ? Where hath Peter 
disappeared to ? And who is the lady you have 
forgathered with ? 5 he said, as he looked down 
in amusement at the children. Peter came 
swinging along the Square, red to his powdered 
locks, and Patty, overcome with confusion, 
stood still at some distance and beckoned to 
Carrie to run to her. 

4 O no, sir, I am not alone ; Peter is talking 
to a woman there, and ’ said Phil. 

4 And you are following his example, 5 laughed 
Phil’s father. 4 And what is your name, my 
little lady ? ’ 

Carrie was smitten with sudden shyness, and 
thought of beginning to cry. She thrust her 
dimpled hand into her eye and rubbed it hard, 
and did not speak. Peter came up breathless 
and apologetic. 

4 1 was but speaking with a friend, sir, ’ he 
exclaimed ; 4 an’ Master Phil he did run away 
along the Square, sir, and ’ 


96 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


‘ Tush, Peter, there is little harm clone,’ said 
his master, and would have passed on, but Phil 
barred his path. 

‘ If you please, sir, Caroline would like to 
put her hand into the torch-snuffer : will you 
lift her ? ’ 

c And what will Caroline’s maid say ? ’ 
laughed Phil’s father. 

‘ Nothing, sir, if you do it,’ Phil urged, and 
at that his father stooped down and swung 
Carrie up on to his shoulder, and bade her 
poke her fingers into the envied grime of the 
snuffer. 

6 And now give me a kiss for it,’ he said ; 
and Carrie, her shyness quite cured by the de- 
lightfully black aspect of her fingers, gave the 
salute with great freedom. 

‘ Wasn’t that most agreeable ? ’ asked Phil ; 
he alluded not to the kiss, but to the soot. 
Patty at this moment, seeing some interference 
necessary, came forward with a curtsey to claim 
her charge. 

c I fear I have led your little lady into mis- 
chief,’ said Phil’s father to her, smiling very 
pleasantly. Patty murmured incoherent ex- 
cuses, curtseyed again, and bade Carrie say 
good-day to the gentleman. As they walked 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 97 


away Carrie heard Phil’s voice — it was singu- 
larly clear — echoing along the quiet Square. 

‘ Caroline, sir.’ And then, in reply to an- 
other question — 

6 Caroline, sir ; I do not know what else.’ 
It was well for Carrie that she could not over- 
hear what followed — 

‘ A child of singular beauty. . . . Peter, 
who is she ? ’ 

‘ I — I cannot say, sir. I am slightly ac- 
quainted with the young woman as looks after 
her, sir, ’ said Peter, and he looked so ashamed 
of himself, and so uncomfortable, that his mas- 
ter did not question him further, but passed 
down the steps, laughing as he went. 

Patty on the homeward way was very silent. 
When they reached Jermyn Street she took 
Carrie straight up-stairs and closed the nursery 
door. Then she stood in front of the child 
menacingly. 

‘ Mind, Miss Caroline, if ever you do say to 
master or to mistress one word of meeting with 
this little gentleman, I ’ll — I ’ll lock you up in 
a black hole. ’ 

‘ Why, Patty ? ’ began Carrie. 

‘ Well, you had best ask no questions, or may- 
hap I’ll put you in the hole for that,’ said 


98 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


Patty ; and then, because in the main she was 
a good-hearted girl, and hated to frighten Car- 
rie, she kissed the child and assured her over 
and over again that if no word of this meeting 
ever crossed her lips, she would have chestnuts 
to roast on the ribs of the nursery grate, and 
nuts to eat by the handful. 

So Carrie agreed to be silent. 


CHAPTER XIII 


How so pleasant and easy is it to tread the 
primrose path, that after the first difficulty of 
being silent about her new playmate was got 
over, Carrie never thought about the matter, 
and it became quite a daily thing that the chil- 
dren met and walked together while Patty and 
Peter sauntered in the rear, very much occu- 
pied with each other. 

Phil was a curious boy, of great strength of 
character : a hot-tempered, domineering child, 
horribly clever for his age, very imaginative, 
and withal sadly spoilt. Peter, it is true, held 
his young master in very scant reverence, and 
would speak to him at times with great sharp- 
ness, but his was the only control that was ever 
exercised over the child. Carrie, who had no 
temper at all, was frightened almost out of her 
little judgment the first time she saw Phil in 
one of his worst fits of anger. They were 
walking in St. James’ Park, and Phil began to 


100 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


throw stones into the water at the water-fowl, 
spluttering his fine new velvet suit at each 
splash. 

4 Mustn’t be after that game, Master Phil, ’ 
said Peter, and Phil continued his stone-throw- 
ing with aristocratic indifference. 

4 Did you hear, Master Phil ? You ’re spoil- 
in’ them new clothes,’ said Peter, and ap- 
proaching to where Phil stood he forcibly re- 
moved the stones from his hands. Phil’s face 
was convulsed in a moment with horrid passion. 
He fell on his knees on the walk and scraped 
up the mud and gravel in handfuls, pelting the 
stately Mr. Peter’s calves in futile anger. 

4 1 shall do as I please, Peter ; you are a ser- 
vant, and you shall not stop me throwing stones 
— there — and there — and there.’ He empha- 
sised each word with another handful of gravel. 

Carrie drew away to Patty’s side, shocked 
into silence. Patty said 4 Lor’,’ and Peter 
smiled. 

4 ’E ’s a little imp,’ he said ; 4 there ’s but the 
one way to manage him/ And with that he 
lifted Phil suddenly to his feet, shook him 
sharply, and boxed his ears till the child began 
to cry. 

4 There, that ’ll settle you,’ he said. He 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 101 


pushed poor Phil before him along the path, 
and stooped down to brush from his immaculate 
stockinged legs the marks of this ignoble con- 
flict. 

Carrie, being admonished by Patty to rejoin 
her companion, advanced rather timidly towards 
him. Phil was quite white now, and shook all 
over. 

4 1 think I shall go home now, Peter,’ he said 
in a very humble little voice ; ‘ I feel most ter- 
ribly tired — will you take me home ? ’ 

‘ Yes, Master Phil,’ said Peter, quite pleas- 
antly, and with adieux to Carrie and Patty, 
they walked off together up the Mall. 

4 Lor’ ! what a life Mr. Peter do lead with 
the boy ! ’ said Patty occultly. Carrie was 
silent, and watched the retreating forms of the 
little Phil and the mighty Peter till they be- 
came merged in the throng. 

As they came to see more and more of each 
other the children’s intercourse assumed a 
definite character, which one often notices in 
childish friendships. Phil, as the elder and 
more original-minded of the two, assumed as it 
were command, led the conversation, and Car- 
rie, deeply admiring his powers of mind, and 
quite content to be commanded, took all her 


102 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


ideas from him. Phil indeed was vastly enter- 
taining to her after the pre-occupied silence of 
Patty, but sometimes his views rather startled 
her childish fancy. 

They had gone far afield one fine day in late 
autumn — even to the Park— a world of delight 
to the children, and Peter and Patty, having 
seated themselves under one of the trees, Phil 
and Carrie followed the example of their elders 
and sat down also. 

4 I wish God would come, 5 said Phil suddenly, 
gazing up through the branches above him. 

4 Do you not, Carrie ? ’ 

4 Ho — o,’ admitted the feeble-minded Carrie. 

4 1 do, and I shall tell you why. Peter took 
me to his meeting-house, where they pray with- 
out a book, and they prayed, 44 Rend the heavens 
and come down.” Well, sine# that I ’ve lain 
down whenever I ’ve got a chance and looked 
up into the sky. ’Tis too bright to look into 
nicely most days, but if God were to make a 
rent in that blue bit we see ’ (he pointed up as 
he spoke, and Carrie glanced upwards, half ex- 
pecting to see some Beatific Vision), 4 if He 
were to make a hole to come down through, you 
know, we should see something brighter than 
that behind, I believe. And then He’d come 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 103 


clown — oh, like that ! ’ Phil brought his hands 
together with a crack that made Carrie jump. 

‘ I ’d be frightened,’ she said, taking a re- 
assuring peep at the placid blue that smiled 
above them. It showed no signs of cracking 
open, she thought. 

‘ Pooh,’ said Phil contemptuously. 4 1 be- 
lieve you had rather that the other God came 
— the Jesus God. He is quite different, and 
will not come the same way at ail. I fancy 
He’d walk into the town : coming the Rich- 
mond way perhaps, about the blossomy time of 
the year. We would ^ust be walking along 
Piccadilly perhaps, and we’d see every one 
turning to look, and . . 

Phil’s imagination gave out here ; he had not 
given enough of thought to the subject to 
visualise it perfectly, so he returned to his for- 
mer and more favourite imagining — 

4 Now what pleases me about V other God 
coming would be the noise — drums, and bugles. 
Don’t you love ’em, Carrie ? I went with my 
father to the Horse Guards t’other day. Oh, 
you should have heard it ! Well, God will 
have gold bugles of course — the ones 1 heard 
were just tin, I think— and the gold bugles and 
God’s drums together, they ’d make a noise no 


104 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 

one could get away from. How what do you 
suppose every one we know would do ? I won- 
der what my father would do ? Peter would 
come running up the back stair to look after me 
— I’m sure of that — in case I was afraid. Hot 
that I would be, ’ he added hastily. 

6 When do you think it will happen ? ’ asked 
Carrie, very much awed, though Phil had fin- 
ished off with a shrill little twirl of laughter. 

c Oh, perhaps next week, or perhaps to-night, 
Peter says. I believe God will come down on 
the gilt top of St. Paul’s myself. Such a fine 
place to land on from the sky,’ continued the 
little prophet, inspired as all prophets are by a 
credulous audience. ‘ He ’d — He ’d— oh, I 
don’t know what I was going to say. Carrie, 
look round the tree and see if Peter is kissing 
Patty, for I want to climb the tree, and ’tis 
safe to begin if he ’s doing that. ’ 

Carrie obediently reconnoitred ; ‘ I think 
he ’s going to,’ she reported. ‘ He has his arm 
round her waist, and he always begins that way.’ 

‘ Come on then,’ said the prophet, leaving 
the Second Advent unceremoniously behind 
him, as he addressed himself to the ascent of a 
very smutt}^ tree-trunk, much to the detriment 
of his own and Carrie’s finery. 


CHAPTER XIV 


One day not very long after this Patty came 
into the nursery breathless and agitated. 

‘ Lord save us ! Miss Carrie, what do you 
think ? Master Phil hath near killed himself ! 
I ’m but just in from a message, and who should 
I meet but Mr. Peter, running like mad, and 
with never a hat to his head ! 5 Taint often as 

Mr. Peter passeth by me in the street, but he 
waved and passed on without one word, and 
up to the door of Dr. James and kicks till the 
door do near split across. When he ’d given 
his message he found time to return to where I 
was a-standin’ — for in troth I had such a terror 
at the sight of Mr. Peter flyin’ down the street 
that I stood as if I had the palsy, and must so 
stand there till he returned. “ Well, Mr. 
Peter,” I said, “ you seem pressed for time 
this day.” “ Miss Patty,” saith he (and be- 
lieve me he could scarce get out the words for 


106 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


agitation), — “ Miss Patty , my young master 
near burned to death.” ’ 

Patty was breathless with agitation herself 
at this point, and to recover her breath and re- 
lieve her surcharged feelings she seized a brush 
and began to arrange Carrie’s locks with more 
energy than gentleness. Carrie, deeply stirred 
by this tale, listened in great anxiety for fur- 
ther details. Patty then proceeded — 

‘ Being dinner-time, all the house was still, 
and Master Phil slips from the nursery and into 
the master’s own room he do go, and com- 
mences playing with the log fire. He hath a 
great fancy for pilin’ on the logs, same as he 
seeth Mr. Peter a-doing, and he’d lifted one 
too heavy an’ overbalanced hisself into the 
fire. He’d on a silk suit with ruffles, and it 
fired direct, and the whole body of him was 
blazing in a moment. The master’ s gentleman, 
as was in the dressing-room a-putting away of 
the master’s clothes, he came running in and 
pulled Master Phil out from the heart o’ the 
fire ! They ’d a business tearing off his clothes ! 
and now there he do lie in the master’s own 
bed a-screamin’ in agony.’ 

Carrie was deeply impressed ; it was not her 
nature to weep easily over anything, but she 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 107 


approached the nursery fire and stood gazing at 
the cruel element that had worked such sad 
havoc on her poor little playmate. 

Patty, with hysteric exclamations, pulled her 
back and declared she would never have an 
easy moment again — never. But a few mo- 
ments later she found it necessary to flounce off 
to the kitchen, to repeat her tale there with 
many sappy additions. 

Carrie, thus deserted, quietly drew her little 
chair close to the fire, and looked at the flames 
with a very serious face. She even extended 
one of her fat little fingers towards the bars ex- 
perimentally, withdrawing it, however, with 
less caution, and a moment later she said ‘ Poor 
Phil ! ’ with heart -felt compassion. 

Patty ran in then, and shook her roughly. 

4 What did I say, Miss Carrie ? — never beyond 
the rug, and there you do sit close in to the 
very blaze ! How, Miss Carrie, mind you obey 
me better, and partickerly in this, never to say 
one word of Master Phil to the master or the 
mistress. And if so be you do, well, of this 
I ’m sure as I stand in my shoes : you ’ll never 
play again with Master Phil so long as you 
live.’ 

Carrie did not in the least understand the 


108 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


reason of all this mystery about Phil ; but she 
reiterated once more her promise of secrecy. 

That night as she curtseyed to her parents at 
bedtime, she said suddenly — 

4 Doth burning hurt, dada ? ’ 

Sebastian laughed. ‘ Are you going to the 
stake, Carrie ? ’ he said. 

4 Ho, not mej said Carrie, with some con- 
gratulation in her tones. 

One day, some three weeks after this, Patty 
said mysteriously to Carrie that they were 
going out that afternoon to pay a visit. ‘ We 
are to see Master Phil,’ she said, when they 
were in the street ; and Carrie jumped for joy. 

4 O Patty, I am so glad ! Is he better ? 
Where are we to see him ? 5 she cried. 

} In his bed, miss, but mind if ever you do 

say a word 

Carrie was quite impatient. 

4 You are most strange about Phil, Patty,’ 
she said ; 4 I am sure he is nicer far to speak 
about than any one else I know. ’ 

4 Oh, well, Miss Carrie, we ’ll be going home 
then ; we ’ll say no more about the visit,’ said 
Patty, making a feint of turning back. 

4 Ho, no, ’tis all right, I shall say nothing,’ 
said Carrie. On the steps of the great house, 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 109 


which Carrie knew quite well now, she saw the 
familiar figure of Mr. Peter,- evidently waiting 
for them. 

‘ I ’ll trouble you to enter by the back way, ’ 
he said, as he greeted them, and with that he 
conducted his visitors to The kitchen regions. 
Everything here was bustle and hurry, for up- 
stairs dinner was being served. They met a 
French cook in a white paper cap dashing out 
of the kitchen with a saucepan in his hand, and 
ran against another man-servant, as tall as Mr. 
Peter, who carried a silver dish. Then, leav- 
ing these regions, they began to climb long, 
long stairs, and came out at last on to a pol- 
ished oak corridor hung with pictures. 

4 Lor’, Mr. Peter, this be terrible fine ! ’ said 
Patty, quite overawed. Mr. Peter sniffed, and 
affected great unconsciousness. 

4 Walk quiet, if you please,’ he said, 4 and on 
the carpet, missie ; these floors do mark very 
easy with boot-marks.’ 

He opened a door very cautiously, and looked 
into a large fire-lit room. It was very still. 

4 ’Ere ’s a visitor for you, Master Phil,’ said 
Mr. Peter, stepping on tiptoe towards a huge 
canopied bed which occupied the side of the 
room and faced the fire. With a sign to Carrie 


110 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


to follow him, Mr. Peter drew back one of the 
satin curtains, and then, followed by Patty, 
tiptoed away again into the adjoining room. 
Carrie crept up to the side of the bed and peered 
into its tent-like depths. There lay Phil, 
propped up with pillows, white and thin, his 
shining restless eyes moving ceaselessly round 
him. 

4 Well,’ said Carrie, after the unemotional 
manner of children. 

4 Hullo ! 5 said Phil. He started up in bed, 
and then fell back against the pillows with a 
cry. 

Carrie was tremendously impressed by all 
she saw around her : — the size and grandeur of 
the room, the satin hangings of the bed, em- 
broidered all over with crests and coats of 
arms, the silk coverlet under which Phil re- 
posed, the solemn quiet of the room, and the 
weird whiteness of her little companion’s face. 

It was all indelibly stamped upon her mem- 
ory in a moment, a scene never to be forgotten. 

She laid her little hand on the stiff silk cover 
and found nothing to say. 

4 Oh, I ’m glad to see you, Carrie,’ said Phil 
then, who was never at a loss for words. He 
tossed his head restlessly about as he spoke. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 111 


4 They do not let me play, or anything, since I 
have been ill. 5 

4 Do you hurt much ? ’ asked Carrie, to 
whom pain was an unknown mystery and 
dignity. 

4 Yes, my hands hurt most terribly ; see, 
each finger is tied up by itself in a little 
bag — that is why I cannot play with any- 
thing.’ 

4 Shall I whistle to you ? ’ asked Carrie, 
struck by a sudden inspiration. 4 A friend of 
my father’s has taught me to whistle, and he 
says I do it to admiration. ’ She jumped on to 
the edge of the bed, flung back her head, and 
whistled off a gay little roulade. 

Phil laughed delightedly. 4 O do that again ; 
you look like the poodles I saw in Paris. They 
threw back their heads and howled in a chorus,’ 
he cried. 

4 W ell, you pretend you are the other poodle, ’ 
said Carrie ; 4 I find it difficult whistling alone. 
Mr. Tillet, who teaches me, always whistles 
with me. ’ 

4 Who ’s Tillet ? ’ asked Phil. 

4 He ’s a soldier — a man my father knows. ’ 

4 A soldier ! oh, I suppose he will be a gen- 
eral— they are all generals,’ said Phil. 


112 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


c I think he is a bugler — is that the same ? — 
something, I suppose ; they all fight. ’ 

‘ Well, never mind ; do it again, Carrie, ’tis 
such fun to see you.’ 

4 My mother does not like me to whistle, ’ 
said Carrie, but my father is ever teaching me 
new tunes, and Mr. Tillet, so I have to learn, 
but, if you please, I had rather look round the 
room, Phil ; I want to look into that long mir- 
ror. ’ So Carrie slipped down off the bed and 
walked (by irresistible feminine instinct drawn) 
towards the long French mirror, the like of 
which she had never seen before, and then she 
played for a few minutes with the Dresden 
china dishes on the dressing-table. 

‘ You take N care with my father’s razors,’ 
warned Phil ; ‘ but they are not there — I for- 
got he wasn’t sleeping here. I have this room 
all to myself, and oh ! it ’s gloomy at night. 
You see that big wardrobe over there — well, I 
think all manner of things come out of it 
through the night. You see sometimes Peter 
sits with me, and sometimes nurse, but they 

both often go asleep, and then ’ 

Moved by this recital of nightly terrors, Car- 
rie came back to the side of Phil’s bed and took 
another compassionate look at him. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 113 


‘ I am so tired of lying here, ’ he said crossly. 
4 And you know, though my father makes a lot 
of me when I am well sometimes, he never 
comes near me now that I am ill — just when I 
would like him. My father is rather amusing 
sometimes, you know.’ 

‘ What would he amuse you with ? ’ asked 
Carrie. 

6 Oh, he teaches me a number of things. He 
can swear beautifully. I have learnt some of 
that, but when I used one of his expressions 
the other day they all laughed at me ; ’twas 
rather hard, I thought. My father said : 
“ Bravely tried, Phil, but you scarce apply it 
rightly yet,” and they all laughed again. I 
shall not learn for him again in a hurry.’ 

Carrie was very sympathetic, and Phil con- 
tinued — 

4 Then I play sometimes with him — we have 
shilling points ; ’tis good fun that, Carrie, but 
my father says just now I am too cross to play 
with. ’ 

£ Oh, let me play with you/ Carrie cried, 

‘ I have learnt that too. ’ 

Phil rolled over uneasily on his pillows. 

‘ Peter,’ he called, in a very lordly fashion,— 

£ Peter, bring a pack of cards. ’ 


114: A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


Peter obeyed with some reluctance. 4 See 
you ain’t a-hurtin’ of your hands, Master Phil,’ 
he said. 4 You let missie shuffle an’ deal, like 
a good young gen’l’man.’ 

4 Oh, you be damned, Peter ! ’ said Phil 
hastily, and Peter disappeared into the other 
room, drawing up his shoulders to his ears in a 
very expressive fashion. 

4 Row, you sit on the end of the bed, Carrie, 
and we ’ll have a jolly time,’ said Phil, his ill- 
temper as quickly gone as it had come. 

Carrie scrambled up on to the stiff yellow 
satin coverlet, and dealt out the cards across it, 
while Phil obligingly flattened out his poor 
little burnt knees to form an even table. 

They were deep in their game, when Patty 
came to take Carrie home. Phil’s cheeks were 
pink with excitement, and he called out to 
Peter to go away and let them play on. But 
Peter, with great unconcern, swept together 
the cards that lay on the quilt and lifted Carrie 
to the ground. 

4 Peter, you are a beast ; leave these cards, 
I tell you ! ’ cried Phil. 

4 Sorry, Master Phil, ’tis too late,’ said Peter, 
extending his hand towards the cards that Phil 
still held ; 4 missie must be goin’ now. ’ 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 115 


Carrie stood on tiptoe to wave a better adieu 
to her' playmate, but Phil did not notice her ; 
he was gathering together all his sick little 
strength to avenge himself on the inexorable 
Peter. 

‘ There, you devilled flunkey ! ’ he screamed, 
pitching the cards into Peter’s face and falling 
back against the pillows with a sharp cry of 
pain. 

Peter covered the child gently with the bed- 
clothes, gathered up the cards in silence, and 
signed to Patty and Carrie to follow him out of 
the room. 

4 That’s some of the master’s speech he’s 
pickin’ up,’ he said, with a shake of the head ; 
4 he don’t swear very skilful, as you may see, 
Miss Patty — no fear but he ’ll get at that yet,’ 
he added, with a half smile, half sigh. 

Carrie, rather awed at this scene, took tight 
hold of Patty’s hand and did not speak till they 
were well out in the street again. 

4 I do not think Phil is very happy,’ she said 
then. 

4 Not he, Miss Carrie— not for all his grand 
house an’ altogether, for he ’s a bad boy he is,’ 
responded the moral Patty. 


CHAPTER XY 


It was a long time until Carrie saw Phil again. 

6 Master Phil hath gone off to the country to 
establish his ’ealth,’ Patty said, and it seemed 
as though he would never return again, Carrie 
thought ; for often as she sighed for her little 
companion, he did not come, and finally Patty, 
who seemed to have occult communication with 
the household in St. James’ Square, informed 
her that Phil had gone to school. Patty wept 
as she gave this bit of information, and Carrie, 
partly, it must be confessed, out of the imita- 
tive faculty, wept also at the news. Time, 
they say, dries every tear — perhaps it does — 
certainly Carrie’s were soon dried ; but she re- 
membered Phil long and tenderly for all that, 
and used to ask Patty at intervals if she was 
never going to see him again. Patty always 
answered these questions with a burst of tears, 
which response had such a sobering effect upon 
Carrie that she at last feared to make the in- 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 117 


quiry. But one day, fully a year from the date 
of Phil’s accident, as Patty and Carrie walked 
round the Square together they met a tall lad, 
having the shining eyes of Phil, but changed, 
it seemed, in every other' way beyond recog- 
nition. He was walking along with another 
boy, and passed by Carrie with an unregarding 
stare. Carrie stood still, stamped her little 
foot in anger, and turned to Patty for sym- 
pathy. 

‘ ’Twas Phil, Patty ! ’ she cried, ‘ and he 
passed me without knowing me ! ’ 

Patty gave her head an upward toss. 

‘ Pay no heed to him, Miss Carrie ; the men 
are all alike — not one to mend another,’ she 
said scornfully. They were passing at that 
moment the door whence the magnificent Peter 
had been wont to appear. 

Carrie, however, was not so easily answered. 
She followed Phil’s retreating figure as it dis- 
appeared round the Square, before she spoke 
again, then she said, with great decision — 

4 There goes my husband that is to be, 
Patty. ’ 

4 Lor’ ! have a care what you say in the 
streets, Miss Carrie ! ’ cried Patty, with a de- 
lighted giggle. 


118 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 

Thus Phil passed out of Carrie’s life for the 
< time being. 

It was not an age of learned women, so 
though Carrie began her education about this 
time, she was not the disquieting receptacle of 
knowledge that modern childhood sometimes is 
in our progressive age. Carrie learned to read 
and write, she could do a little arithmetic, and 
began to sew a sampler of intricate stitchery ; 
but she could not analyse her native tongue, or 
speak in any other, and I fear even her knowl- 
edge of geography was very hazy. Indeed, if 
the truth must be told about Carrie, she was 
entirely unintellectual in every way. Lessons 
were nothing but a pain to her, and as in these 
days a woman was not thought to add to her 
charms by wisdom, Carrie was not compelled 
to pursue her studies after she had attained to 
a certain very easy standard. 

She was compelled, however, to learn all the 
housekeeping arts, and Mrs. Shepley expected 
nothing short of perfection in this branch of edu- 
cation. By the time Carrie was thirteen there 
was a good deal of friction between the mother 
and daughter. For Carrie, to her want of 
intellectuality, added a supreme carelessness, 
which was agonising to her conventional parent. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 119 


If she had been an incapable girl it would have 
been different ; but Carrie was far from incapa- 
ble. When she chose, no girl of her age could 
accomplish any household task better. Yet, 
where it was a question of pleasure, Carrie 
would fling aside every duty and amuse herself 
without a thought. She had indeed a whole- 
heartedness of joy in living, that would have 
reconciled almost any one except Mrs. Shepley 
to her heedless ways. But to her they were 
unpardonable, and the worst of it all was, that 
Carrie’s father encouraged her in her careless 
habits — making it almost useless for her to 
remonstrate. 

How it would have fared between the mother 
and daughter later in life is hard to say. They 
were both spared this test. For soon after 
Carrie’s fourteenth birthday was past, Mrs. 
Shepley fell ill of a lingering disorder, and lay 
for many a long month between life and death. 
Carrie grew less careless in these months of 
anxiety, grew quieter also, poor child — never 
shut the doors noisily, and almost forgot how 
to whistle, while Sebastian went about with a 
very grave face. How that Emma was so ill, 
he recognised what a good wife she had been 
to him in spite of all her failings, and realised 


120 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


too what it would mean to him should he be 
left with Carrie motherless on his hands. 
Whatever Emma’s faults had been, she had 
been a careful mother, and had given a zealous 
watchfulness to everything concerning Carrie 
that he never could have time to give. 

It must have been weighing on Emma’s mind 
also, this matter of how Carrie was to get 
on without her, but she looked at it in a 
characteristic light. Almost with her latest 
breath she called Sebastian to her bedside to 
pray him to be particular about Carrie’s asso- 
ciates. 

4 Let Charlotte Mallow see that Carrie makes 
no friends out of her own situation in life — be- 
neath her, in fact. ’ 

4 Lord, Emma, the girl ’s all right. I am 
here to protect her, ’ said Sebastian. 

4 ’Tis the old trouble, Sebastian — you do not 
see what I mean. — Ah ! let her grow up a gen- 
tlewoman. ’ 

4 1 ’ll do my best, Emma, ’ he said. 

4 1 pray you to send her to church each Lord’s 
Day,’ pursued Mrs. Shepley. 4 Send her with 
Charlotte ; you have ever been careless of the 
Church and its mysteries. ’ 

4 To church she shall go,’ said Sebastian — 


A. DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 121 


6 if that will make her a gentlewoman, ’ he 
added to himself. 

So Mrs. Shepley, with her little gentilities 
and punctilios, her tactless ways and her zeal 
for ordinances, went the way of all flesh. 

Sebastian was not broken-hearted, though 
the house felt empty enough, he thought, with- 
out poor Emma ; and Carrie, after the first sol- 
emn months of mourning were over, missed her 
mother sadly little. 

She lived a perfectly happy unconstrained 
existence, which accorded well with her simple 
nature. Sebastian, who was nothing if not 
truthful, sent her to church weekly with Lady 
Mallow, and these were the dreariest hours of 
Carrie’s otherwise unclouded childhood. Each 
Sunday morning Lady Mallow appeared with 
horrible regularity, driving in a singularly 
gloomy-looking coach, which seemed to Carrie 
to swallow her up as she entered it. In silence 
they drove through the crowded streets (which 
on Sunday had a way of looking very gloomy 
too), and the coach drew up before the door of 
that sad little building, the church of St, Mary 
Minories. Lady Mallow occupied one of those 
carved oak pews which to this day you may 
see mouldering away in the church, and there 


122 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


in its genteel obscurity Carrie sat, with a sink- 
ing heart, counting the slow-passing minutes 
till she could breathe the fresher air of the 
everyday world again. Patty had once told 
her that ‘ persons of quality was buried in ’eaps 
under the floor in St. Mary Minories', 5 and 
Carrie’s imagination hovered over this grue- 
some thought. She somehow connected that 
damp old smell which clings about the church 
with the £ heaps an’ heaps of persons of quality ’ 
lying in their shrouds under the chancel, and 
each day as she asserted her belief in the resur- 
rection of the body, found herself wondering 
how the poor dead people would ever work 
their way up through those slabs of stone. So 
Carrie required all the fortitude and cheerful- 
ness which she inherited from her father to sus- 
tain the ordeal of Sunday’s gloom. 

Service once over, however, she stepped into 
the auntly coach with a much lighter heart. 
The drive home seemed an altogether different 
matter from the drive to church, and each step 
of the way Carrie’s spirits mounted higher and 
higher, till, when the coach drew up before the 
door, she could have danced for joy. Bidding 
a decorous adieu to her aunt, Carrie was handed 
out by the man-servant, and mounted the steps 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 123 

to the door with the greatest propriety. But 
it was well that the departing rumble of the 
wheels hid from Lady Mallow’s ear that whoop 
of joy which Carrie uttered as she raced into 
the parlour and flung her arms round her 
father’s neck, crying out, 

‘ ’Tis done — done for another week, sir ! ’ 

Mrs. Shepley had never permitted such de- 
monstrative greetings — they were indeed consid- 
ered a great breach of decorum in those days ; 
but I fear many polite rules were broken in 
upon by Carrie and her father, who neither of 
them cared as much as they should have done 
for the generally received ideas of the society 
of their day. 

Such good friends were Carrie and her father 
that the girl sought for no friends of her own 
age ; she went about everywhere with Sebas- 
tian when he had leisure to escort her, and 
when he was busy she amused herself at home, 
very well content with life and all things. In 
her father’s company she visited many a strange 
scene ; she would go with him to the hospitals 
sometimes, and — shade of Mrs. Shepley ! — how 
many a sight she saw in these unsavoury tents 
of disease ! Then Carrie entertained all her 
father’s friends (those motley friends her poor 


124: A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


mother had objected to so much), and in many 
ways grew up with more of the manners of a 
boy than of a girl. She was singularly free 
from the sillinesses and affectations of early girl- 
hood, having heard no talk at all of lovers or 
admiration, nor having ever entered into rivalry 
with other women in the matter of looks and 
charm. Carrie was serenely unconscious that 
the world held a rival for her ; she was the first 
with all the men of her own little world, and 
as yet she had not gone beyond it. If she com- 
pared her own looks with those of other girls, 
it was merely from curiosity quite untouched 
by jealous feeling. The fact was only distantly 
dawning upon her that she was fair beyond the 
common ; just now she took it as her due from 
Fortune’s kindly hand. 


CHAPTER XYI 


Miss Caroline Shepley, up to the age of seven- 
teen years, had perhaps, in her own way, lived 
as happy a life as it is granted to many young 
persons to live. She looked like it too ; wear- 
ing that air of pleased good-humour that is a 
passport to every heart, and blooming like a 
rose, in spite of the fact that she had never 
been out of London all her days. Carrie was 
very tall, with just the same fearless brilliant 
blue eyes that her father had, but from her 
mother she had inherited a skin as white as 
milk, with a clear pink colour in the cheeks, 
two bewitching dimples, and ringlets, of deep 
red hair. To see her pass along the streets ! — 
Do they grow now-a-days, these shining beau- 
ties that brightened the world of long ago, or 
is it that they are so common we scarcely re- 
gard them? But as time went on, Carrie’s 
good looks became such as to be quite embar- 
rassing both to herself and to her father, for 


126 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 

she could never go out alone, and even in 
his company attracted a vast deal of atten- 
tion. 

‘How, 5 said Sebastian, ‘I shall send Carrie 
to the' country with her aunt, as she has so 
often been pressed to go, else her head will be 
turned altogether. 5 

Lady Mallow’s establishment certainly prom- 
ised to be dull enough for safety. Her Lady- 
ship, who was rich enough to indulge in fancies 
about climate, had taken an idea that London 
did not suit her health. On her brother-in- 
law’s suggestion, she had taken a house in the 
neighbourhood of AYynford, and there was 
passing the summer months in genteel and 
plethoric seclusion— for alas ! Lady Mallow was 
becoming stout in middle life. From all he re- 
membered of Wynford twenty years ago, 
Sebastian smiled to think of the conventual ex- 
istence poor Carrie might lead there. 

‘ You must go to the village of Wynford and 
see where your grandfather sold drugs ; but 
there ’s not one of our name left there now,’ he 
said. 

‘ Sir ! my dear sir ! what would my aunt 
Charlotte say should I propose to visit where 
any one related to me had traded in anything’, 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 127 

at any time \ ’ said Carrie — and indeed she was 
right. 

So one splendid May morning Lady Mallow’s 
coach drew up before the door of the Shepleys’ 
house, and the beautiful Carrie came out upon 
the steps, drawing on her long gloves, while 
her baggage was stowed away in the rumble of 
the coach. 

4 Well, Carrie, adieu to you, and Heaven 
bless you ! ’ said her father ; and Carrie, un- 
conventional as usual, turned suddenly, in the 
full view of her aunt’s decorous footman, flung 
her arms round Sebastian, and kissed him ten- 
derly. 

4 1 do not wish to leave you, sir ; I had rather 
far stay with you,’ she cried ; but Sebastian 
laughed at her, and bade her not keep those 
spirited animals which her aunt drove 4 waiting 
upon her sentimentalities.’ 

The spirited animals waddled off down the 
street very deliberately, and Carrie sat back in 
the coach and waved her hand till she was out 
of sight. Though she had not been altogether 
pleased to leave home, it would certainly be a 
new and delightful thing to leave London 
smoke behind her, and drive far out into the 
wonderful green country. Ho train had yet 


128 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


snorted through these fair English meadows, 
and the depth of their tranquillity was like a 
dreamless sleep. To the heart that has known 
sorrow — and perhaps more to the heart that 
has missed joy — the jubilant burgeoning of 
spring will sometimes bring an intolerable sad- 
ness. But in the first blossom and fairness of 
her youth, with her sunny childhood barely 
left behind, with hope ahead, these stainless 
blue skies, and the rich promise of the bursting 
leafage, filled Carrie’s heart with a sort of 
ecstasy. She fairly clapped her hands at the 
hackneyed old sight of a meadow where lambs 
were gambolling, and called out to the coach- 
man, praying him to stop and let her buy a 
drink of milk at a cottage door where a cow 
was being milked. Towards the end of the 
day these pleasures began to pall a little, and 
when at last the coach drew up at Lady Mal- 
low’s door Carrie was not sorry to alight. The 
forty miles that lay between her and London 
seemed very long in the retrospect, and a sud- 
den chill of home-sickness fell over her spirit as 
she entered the decorous portals of her aunt’s 
abode. ‘ I wonder why I ever came,’ she 
thought. ‘ Aunt Charlotte will fidget me to 
death — and I shall be so dull, and I think Lon- 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 129 


don is ever so much nicer than the country.’ 
We must all be familiar with such misgivings, 
and familiar too with the extraordinary differ- 
ence which a night’s rest makes in such a case. 
Carrie rose up next morning with much more 
rose-coloured views of life. 4 Aunt Charlotte 
is vastly dull, but how agreeable to be here ! — 
and O how beautiful, how beautiful ! ’ she said 
as she gazed out at the new surroundings, smelt 
the country sweetness, and longed for break- 
fast. Lady Mallow, indeed, was quite shocked 
by Carrie’s appetite. 4 You will become stout, 
my dear,’ she said. 4 ’Tis most ungenteel for 
a young gentlewoman like you to eat so freely ! ’ 
Carrie was a little ashamed of herself. 

4 You see, madam,’ she explained, 4 1 live 
always with men, and perhaps their example 
has made me eat as they do. I do not think I 
shall become very fat, because all my life I 
have been hungry, and I have not become fat 
yet, you see.’ 

The restrictions of her aunt’s society began 
to press upon Carrie pretty heavily by the after- 
noon. All morning she had had to sit indoors 
sewing at her embroidery, then, about two 
o’clock, she must drive out for a slow airing 
until dinner, then came two hours more of talk 


130 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


and embroidery, and after supper a game of 
whist with double dummy. And outside, while 
all these golden hours dragged so slowly past, 
was the grand, twittering, budding spring 
world waiting to be explored ! Carrie beat an 
impatient tattoo upon the floor with her little 
foot, and answered Lady Mallow’s questions 
rather incoherently. 


CHAPTER XVII 


The next clay was the same, and the next and 
the next. On the fourth day, urged by de- 
spair, Carrie sat down to write to Sebastian the 
whole tale of her woe. 

‘ Sir, I shall die,’ she wrote. ‘ ’Tis terrible ; 
I do not like living with women, I find men 
vastly more agreeable. Pray, pray, dear sir— 
my dearest dada — write and summon me home, 
for I am weary of my life here at Wynforcl.’ 

Sebastian laughed a good deal over this 
mournful missive, and wrote Carrie to try to 
cultivate patience and the womanly graces. 

But before his letter had reached her, help 
had come to Carrie from an unexpected quarter. 
Lady Mallow, by the kindness of Heaven, fell 
sick of an influenza, which painful disorder 
confined the poor lady to her bed, and set Car- 
rie at liberty. 

And ennui fled : and with happy hurrying 
feet Carrie raced down the avenue and along 


132 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


the sweet hedge-bordered roads, going she knew 
not whither— but away, away from bondage 
and embroidery and double -dummy whist ! 

She turned off into a side lane, and then 
stood looking across the country to see which 
direction seemed the most promising. 

The river plainly beckoned her : so, thrusting 
her way through the hedge, Carrie set off across 
the meadows towards the silvery loops of water 
that slipped along so invitingly in the distance. 
The fields were white with anemone blossoms. 
She stood among them in perfect rapture, and 
then got down upon her knees and began to 
pull the flowers in handfuls ; then further off, 
along the river bank, she saw a great thicket 
of blossoming thorn, white as snow, and off she 
ran towards it. 

Carrie flung down all her freshly gathered 
flowers in a heap upon the grass when she 
reached the thorn bushes. For these blossoms 
were lovelier by far than anything she had seen 
yet ; the little starry flowers set on to their 
jagged black stems had a beauty all their own. 
Undismayed by the assailing thorns, Carrie 
pressed into the thicket to gather some of the 
coveted branches. Her hair caught on the 
bushes, her dress gave a distracting tear, and 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 133 


finally she scratched her plump white arm np to 
the elbow. This at last sobered her adven- 
turous spirit. She tried to escape from the 
clinging branches, but being town-bred, she 
was ignorant of the fact that to turn round in 
a thorn thicket is to imprison yourself hope- 
lessly there. So Carrie twisted quickly round, 
thinking to find herself free, and instead felt of 
a sudden twenty more thorns catch on her un- 
fortunate person. She shook her head, and a 
branch a-dance in the breeze clutched her hair 
like a human hand. 

‘ O you beautiful cross bushes ! 5 cried Carrie 
in despair, ‘ I will not gather more of you, if 
you will but let me go ! ’ 

4 Can I help you, madam ? 5 said a voice be- 
hind her at this moment, and some one laughed. 
Carrie could not turn round to see who had 
come to her assistance, but she laughed also. 

‘ O yes, I thank you,’ she cried ; ‘ I do not 
know what to do, I am all caught round and 
round.’ 

4 Come out backwards ; do not try to turn, 
I shall hold the branches here for you. Take 
heed for your eyes, madam,’ said her helper. 
Carrie began to beat a slow retreat, disengaging 
herself from the clinging branches one by one. 


134 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


At last, torn and dishevelled, she shook off the 
last assailant and turned round to see who had 
come to her aid. 

A young man with very shining eyes stood 
beside her, still holding back the thorn-bushes 
with one hand. They looked at each other in 
silence for a moment, and then the young man 
exclaimed in a tone of surprised amusement, 

4 How, by all the powers ! ’Tis little Carrie 
Shepley ! ’ And Carrie, in spite of her ruffled 
plumage, responded to this salutation with 
great urban ease of manner. 

‘ And this is “ Phil” that used to be ? ’ she 
said, holding out her hand to him. 

‘ Carrie, you are scarce changed at all, saving 
that you are grown to be near as tall as I am, ’ 
said Phil, and he eyed Carrie with great ad- 
miration as he took her hand. 

‘ Hor you either, Mr.— Mr.— -I forget your 
surname, ’ said Carrie, drawing herself up with 
some dignity at this rather free address from a 
stranger. But as she spoke she met Phil’s 
shining eyes so ridiculously unchanged that she 
laughed outright and came down from her high 
horse without further delay. 

4 You are not Mr. Anything, I think — only 
Phil, ’ she said. 4 1 could think, to look at us 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 135 


both just now, that we were playing in the 
Park, and that Patty and Peter would come 
round the corner in a moment to scold us ! 
Pray, sir — Phil — where are you come from, and 
how do we meet here ? 5 

£ Come and sit by the river, and I shall tell 
you everything you care to hear,’ said Phil. 
And Carrie,' nothing loath, sat down on the 
bank, gathered her torn flounces around her, 
and gave a surreptitious smooth to her straying 
locks. 

4 Well, I must tell you, you are a trespasser, 
Carrie, on my father’s land. But ’twould be 
an ungracious way to renew an old friendship 
to arrest you — so I let that pass. My father, 
if you must know, is Mr. Richard Meadowes of 
Fairmeadowes — the house you see far away 
there among the trees ; that is how I come to 
be here.’ 

4 Do you live always here then ? ’ asked 
Carrie. 

4 1 ? no — I am but come from Oxford for 
Easter. I am alone here though just now. 
My father is in town. — But you have not yet 
told me how you are here, Carrie ? ’ " 

4 1 am visiting my aunt, Lady Mallow. She 
hath taken Forde, the house which stands on 


136 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


the sloping ground about half a mile from here 
along the high road. And indeed, indeed, 
Phil, I have come near running away to Lon- 
don, so dull have I been these four days since 
I came to Wynford.’ 

‘ Dull — ah, 5 tis a terrible thing to be dull,’ 
said Phil sympathetically ; ‘ once I was dull- 
just once in life, and I made the resolve never 
, to suffer it again. I can bear to be unhappy, 
or even to be in pain ; but dulness — never. I ’d 
sooner get drunk than be dull ! ’ And at that 
the young man went off into a curiously ring- 
ing laugh that sounded across the fields like a 
bell. 

f Then are you never dull here ? ’ asked Car- 
rie in amazement. 

£ O no — never. I come here once or twice 
in the year, and I bring with me books to last 
me all the time and more ; sometimes I work 
hard, hard, till I feel as though my brain would 
crack — ’tis rather nice that, and then I come 
down here by the river and amuse myself ; or 
I ride, or shoot the crows, or anything else 
there is to shoot. But the first morning I 
waken at an end of my resources, that day I 
leave Wynford. Oh, but I love Fairmeadowes. 
I never tire here.’ 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 137 


c You are just the same,’ said Carrie, more 
emphatically than before ; 4 to hear you talk — 
’tis just as you used to. ’ She looked down at 
Phil as she spoke. He had flung himself down 
on the bank at her feet, and was gazing up at 
her in the frankest manner possible. ‘ Why, 
how old are you ? ’ she asked suddenly, as un 
ceremonious as he was, and Phil answered with- 
out a moment’s hesitation, ‘ One-and-twenty, 
and horribly young it is — but there is all the 
world to conquer, to be sure, and only one life 
to do it in.’ 

Carrie opened her eyes at this statement. 
‘ How ? ’ she inquired. 

4 How ? ah, that is just the question ! My 
father wished me to enter the Service — not I ! 
“ ’Tis a profession for gentlemen,” he said. 
“ Yes, and for fools,” said I, and he (who was 
in it himself, though he ’s no fool !) was rarely 
angry with me. My father, you know, is a 
curious man — oh, I shall tell you all that an- 
other time,’ said Phil, rolling over on the bank 
in the most childish manner ; then he rose and 
seated himself beside Carrie. Leaning his chin 
on his hand he looked down at the river as it 
flowed below them, and went on in a more seri- 
ous tone— 


138 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


4 I had no mind to enter the Service, yon see, 
because I must have something to do that I 
care about. To speak now before crowds and 
crowds of people— that would be my ambition.’ 

4 But what would you speak about ? ’ asked 
Carrie laughingly — she was a splendid listener ! 

4 Speak ! I ’d speak about anything, Carrie. 
I ’d speak eloquently for half an hour upon your 
shoe-strings and my entire unworthiness to un- 
loose them ! ’ 

4 I believe you would, ’ laughed Carrie ; 4 you 
should enter the Church, Phil, then each Lord’s 
Day you must speak for a certain time. ’ 

4 Hot the Church for me, my imagination is 
by far too strong for that ; ’t would have me 
before my Bishop in a jiffy. Oh, do you re- 
member how scared you were once when I de- 
scribed to you how God would come down on 
the gilt top of St. Paul’s ? ’ 

4 Yes indeed ; I should pity your hearers did 
you scare them after that fashion,’ said Carrie, 
with a smile of reminiscence. 

4 I think I shall study for the Bar,’ began 
Phil, and then, because in spite of his volubility 
he was not a bore, he started up in genuine 
dismay. 

4 Lord save us ! ’ he exclaimed ; 4 here have 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 139 


I been talking* of my own affairs so long* you 
will never speak to me again, Carrie. Come, 
let me show you the path through the park, and 
as you love me, talk of some other matter ! 5 

Carrie laughingly obeyed, talking in her turn 
of herself, and then they talked of childhood 
(that was not so very far behind either of 
them), and of Patty and of Peter. (‘ He ’s 
about the only man I respect in this world ; if 
I could do my duty like him I should* be proud,’ 
said Phil. 4 Why, he has never been late with 
my shaving- water for years.’ At this state- 
ment Carrie glanced up with a little grimace of 
amusement at Phil’s rather peach-like cheek, 
and he laughed ringingly. ‘ Well, that is may- 
hap something of an exaggeration, ’ he ad- 
mitted.) 

And so they sauntered on, abundantly amused 
with each other, till Carrie remembered with 
dismay the lateness of the hour, and bidding 
Phil a hurried farewell, ran off down the road 
in the direction of Forde. 

Phil called after her as she ran : 4 Come 
again to-morrow, Carrie. ’ And so they parted. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


It was not the nature of Mr. Philip Meadowes 
(as may have been gathered from his talk) to 
be reticent upon any subject. He had the 
acumen, however, which most talkative persons 
lack, to choose his listeners carefully ; but with 
those whom he trusted Phil had absolutely no 
reserves. Chief, among his confidants was 
Peter, the grave-faced elderly man-servant who 
had cuffed his ears in childhood, and now had 
discreetly forgotten the fact. 

This evening, as Peter brought in his young 
master’s wine, Phil, lying back in a chair, the 
book he had been reading thrown carelessly on 
the floor, addressed him quite impatiently. 

‘ Why, where have you been all afternoon, 
Peter ? ’ he said. — ‘ How whom do you think I 
met to-day, by all that is curious ? ’ 

Peter laid down the tray he carried, picked 
up the book from the floor, smoothed its ruffled 
pages, and made a feint of guessing. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE U1 


‘ Mayhap the parson, sir ? ’ he said. 

‘ No, no, stupid ; more interesting by far ! ’ 

‘ Mayhap the parson’s daughter, sir ? ’ 

£ Wrong again ; some one a deuced deal pret- 
tier than the parson’s daughter. But there, 
you can never guess — who but Carrie Shepley 
that I used to play with long ago in town, in the 
days when you were courting her maid Patty ? ’ 

Phil expected Peter to laugh at this resurrec- 
tion of his former flirtations ; but instead of 
laughing he stepped forward and laid his hand 
suddenly on his young master’s arm. 

‘ For the love of Heaven, sir, do you have 
naught to do with Miss Carrie Shepley ! ’ he 
said. 

Phil was surprised beyond measure to see the 
decorous Peter so startled out of his usual be- 
haviour. 

( Why, Peter, what the dickens is the matter 
with you ? ’ lie said. 

£ This, sir, that there will be trouble betwixt 
you and the master if so be you takes up with 
Miss Carrie Shepley. I know not the rights 
nor the wrongs of the story, but this I knows, 
that there was a mighty quarrel once betwixt 
the master and Miss Carrie’s father, Dr. Shep- 
ley of Jermyn Street as is.’ 


142 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


4 Oh-^-ho ! ’ whistled Phil. 4 And what did 
the gentlemen fall out upon, Peter ? 1 

4 On a woman, sir,’ said Peter, fidgeting a 
little uneasily. 

4 And who was. the woman ? ’ 

4 By the name of Anne Champion, as I gath- 
ered, sir. I overheard their quarrel, sir, 
through the folding- doors betwixt the rooms in 
St. James’ Square, sir.’ 

4 So that was why you and Patty were so 
particular that we met outside, and altogether 
— eh, Peter ? ’ 

4 The same, sir.’ 

4 Ah, Peter, I have hope for you yet ! Some- 
times I think you scarce human, you are so 
dutiful and faithful, but you stooped to some 
deceit, I ’m glad to hear, once, all along of 
Patty ! ’ 

Peter smiled his demure smile. 

4 ’Twas as you say, sir, — all along of Patty,’ 
he assented. 

Phil reverted then to the quarrel. 4 Anne 
Champion, Anne Champion, ’ he repeated. 

4 And who was Anne Champion, think you, 
Peter ? ’ 

Peter came up to the fireplace, re-arranged 
the ornaments on the mantel-shelf, blew away 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 143 


a speck of imaginary dust from the gilt top of 
the clock, and then, speaking low, he said at 
last — 

4 Your mother, sir, if I made no mistake, 
sir. 5 

4 Eh ? 5 queried Phil, sitting forward in his 
chair, becoming suddenly sober. 

4 The same, sir, ’ repeated Peter. 

4 And Shepley and my father fell out over 
my mother, by your way of it, then ? ’ 

4 ’Twas that way for certain, sir.’ 

4 And what became of my mother, since you 
know so much, Peter ? ’ 

4 ITow she came by her death, sir, I have no 
knowledge, but this I can tell you as the master 
knew naught of her death till Shepley told him 
the same. I heard them speak it out. Saith 
the master, 44 1 shall provide for her,” and saith 
Shepley, 44 She wants for naught,” and saith 
the master, 44 ’Tis I should support her now,” 
and then saith Shepley, 44 Anne Champion is 
dead, and her blood be on you, and on your 
children,” and with that he walked out of the 
room and through the hall to the street door, 
and the whole was over. I made bold to enter 
the room, and there sat the master white and 
shakin’ like any leaf. 44 Sir,” says I, 44 there 


144 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 

hath harm come to you,” but he made little of 
it, and bade me fetch him some wine. The 
same 1 did, and set to straighten the room, that 
was in a disorder such as never was. The 
master watched me a minute, and then saitli 
he, “ Can you be silent on this, Peter — no word 
of it to any in the house ?’ ’ and with that what 
think you he did, sir ? The most of gentlemen 
would have offered me money ; the master he 
held out his hand to me like any other man. 
I ’ve been silent on it all these years, sir, for 
that handshake.’ 

Phil had been listening breathlessly, his quick 
wits piecing together from Peter’s rather in- 
coherent account some skeleton of the truth. 
But at this point he fairly laughed. 

‘ The devil he did ! ’ he said. ‘ Now, was 
not that like him, Peter ? Ah, you are a clever 
man, my good father ! ’ 

Peter smiled indulgently. ‘ Now, sir, you 
do never give the master his due, if I may make 
bold to say so, ’ he began. 4 But to finish with 
the story, sir. ’Twas not more than six weeks 
from then that you was brought to the house, 
sir, and that ’s all I do know — but, sir, from it 
you ’ll see how ’t would be if you took up with 
Miss Carrie Shepley. ’ 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 145 


‘ Well, Peter, if the case be so serious as you 
say, you and Patty should have hesitated ere 
you introduced us, ’ said Phil mischievously. 

‘ Sir, sir, this is no laughing matter, ’ said 
Peter in a sad tone, for Phil, with the incurable 
flippancy that characterised him, had burst into 
a peal of laughter at the man’s grave face. 

‘ Peter, you are a Methodist ; pour me out 
my wine and go ; there is no calculating what 
will come to me “ all along of Carrie,” ’ he 
said. But when Peter had gone Phil rose and 
stood looking into the glass that hung on the 
wall, while he examined his features with a 
new interest. ‘ Anne Champion, ’ he repeated. 
And as, for the first time, he uttered his moth- 
er’s name a curious thrill passed through him. 
‘ Poor mother of mine,’ he said, ‘ I hope I have 
more of you in me than of Richard Meadowes. ’ 


CHAPTER XIX 


‘ Satan,’ says Dr. Watts, 4 finds mischief for 
idle hands to do. ’ And Caroline Shepley, being 
very idle at Wynford, fell into mischief in a 
way which would have confirmed good Dr. 
Watts in his convictions. Lady Mallow’s in- 
fluenza, by dint of coddling, had become very 
severe indeed, and Carrie was left quite to her 
own devices. What these were the readers 
who have followed this story so far will have 
little difficulty in guessing. Day after day 
Philip and Carrie met each other, and their ac- 
quaintance deepened and ripened with extraor- 
dinary rapidity. They seemed to have none of 
the preliminaries of friendship to go through, 
but to have arrived suddenly at intimacy. Car- 
rie was no great letter- writer at any time, now 
all thoughts of writing had long ago left her ; 
she had not put pen to paper for three weeks — 
so absorbing an interest is flirtation. The 
weather hitherto had been very fine, but at last 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 147 


one morning broke wet and grey. Carrie 
was sick at heart ; how could she meet Philip 
out of doors on such a day ? she asked her- 
self. 

How dwellers in town may dread a wet day, 
yet they can scarcely dread it with that entire 
dismay of heart that falls upon the country 
dweller at sight of the blank grey heavens, the 
spongy roads, the dripping trees. The pleasures 
of the country are, in fact, entirely visionary 
in wet weather, its discomforts really practical. 
Carrie stood and looked out over the fields, yes- 
terday so green, to-day so grey ; up at the 
skies, yesterday so blue, to-day so leaden, and 
her heart died within her. What on earth 
should she do with herself all day ? She went 
up-stairs and tried to be sympathetic over her 
aunt’s symptoms for an hour or more, then she 
came down-stairs again and worked at her em- 
broidery, then she tried to read (Carrie was not 
intellectual, you remember), then she fell asleep 
and wakened to hear the dinner-bell ring, al- 
ways a welcome summons to this hearty young 
heroine. 

Dinner over, Carrie went again to inquire for 
the health of Lady Mallow, and as she stood 
beside the bed, listening with ill-concealed 


148 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


yawns to an enumeration of all the symptoms, 
Carrie became aware of a sudden lightening of 
the leaden skies, and a watery sunbeam shot in 
at the window. She could have clapped her 
hands for joy. 

‘Now, Caroline,’ said Lady Mallow, ‘here 
is the Gentlewoman's Journal , which contains 
much useful information, such as may be useful 
to you in after life. I commend to your atten- 
tion the article which relates to the making of 
wax-flowers, a most pretty accomplishment, 
and one which, along with other feminine parts 
of education, I fear your good father hath omit- 
ted from your course of study,’ etc. 

Carrie listened with very scant attention, but 
she took the Journal and made her escape from 
the room quickly enough. 

There could be no doubt about it— the sun 
was trying to shine. It is true everything was 
dripping with moisture, but what of that ? 
Carrie donned a long blue cloak, slipped a loose 
blue hood over her curls, and set off down the 
avenue without a thought. It must be con- 
fessed that a hope came to her that Phil too 
might be tempted out by this change in the 
weather. Nor was Carrie mistaken, for she 
had not gone very far along the roads — very 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 149 

miry they were — before she heard some one 
whistling gaily in the distance, and then Phil 
came across one of the fields, leaped the fence, 
and stood beside her. 

4 Now, how delightful, Carrie ! ’ he began! ; 
4 I was just wondering how best I could meet 
you. ’Twas bold of you to venture out in such 
weather, but you have your reward, you see,’ 
added this saucy young man. 

4 If you but knew the day I have passed ! ’ 
cried Carrie. 4 Come, Phil, take me to walk 
somewhere ; I am near stifled with sitting in 
my aunt’s chamber listening to her symptoms 
and reading the Gentlewoman' s Journal .’ 

4 We had best keep on the road, then ; the 
fields are heavy walking to-day,’ said Phil, and 
they stepped out along the road very well 
pleased with each other. It struck Carrie, 
however, that her companion scarcely looked 
so cheerful as he had done the day before ; 
perhaps this dull weather affected his spirits, 
she thought. 

4 Tell me, what is your father like ? ’ asked 
Phil suddenly. Carrie was rather surprised, 
but she answered with eager pride : — 

4 Tall above the common, and with eyes as 
blue as mine ; and every one depends on him ; 


150 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


half London come to him to be cured. ’ Phil 
walked along in silence for a little. 

4 What is the matter ? ’ asked Carrie ; 4 you 
seem quiet to-day. ’ 

4 I 'was thinking— thinking of my father,’ 
said Phil, then turning towards her with his 
sudden impulsive manner he burst out, 4 ’ T would 
be strange to feel after that fashion for one’s 
father ! I ’ll tell you what my father is ; I am 
so like him I can see — yes, see — straight into 
his mind, and I know every thought that passes 
through it. All my life I ’ve lived with him, 
and had everything from hi's hand, and for the 
life of me, Carrie, I cannot trust him ! ’ 

4 Oh, Phil, have a care what you say ! ’ ex- 
claimed Carrie, but Phil, fairly driven on by 
the current of his words, continued without 
heeding her — 

4 Ninety -nine times he ’d bless you, the hun- 
dredth time he ’d curse you ; his kindness, 
when he chooses, can’t be known, and when it 
comes to an end he ’s as hard as these flints. 
Oh, but he is not bad through and through 
either, only like a rotten fruit — one bite so good 
and the next all gone to corruption. I some- 
times look and look at him and wonder how 
’twill end — the good or the bad. I ’d like to 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 151 


have a bet on him, I ’d back the devil in him 
though, and I ’d win. And for all this, Carrie, 
when he talks to me, as he will sometimes for 
hours, ’ tis all I can do not to worship him. He 
understands me full as well as I understand 
him, that ’s the strange thing, and he knows I 
know his heart. When I look at him and 
think about myself, I think sometimes that I 
am doomed to perdition. I ’ll go his way, only 

quicker, and that ’s the way that leads ’ 

All of a sudden Phil stopped, pointing down 
to the ground ominously. 

4 Ho,’ said Carrie ; ‘ for your eyes are open. ’ 
4 That ’s the way my father has gone ; you 
don’t suppose he sins with his eyes shut,’ said 
Phil. 4 He told me once (he ’s nothing if not 
frank) that ’ 

Round the corner of the road came a sudden 
sound of wheels, a jingle of harness, a plash of 
many horses’ feet through the mire. Carrie 
glanced up to see a coach with outriders ap- 
proaching ; the men wore prune liveries, and 
at sight of them Phil stood still. 

4 My father , Carrie ,’ he said, and Carrie 
marvelled at his tense voice. 

Splish -splash through the sparking mud came 
the horses, each with his jogging postilion 


152 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


a-back, whipping and spurring and cursing by 
turns, for the roads were heavy and the horses 
weary. 

Phil and Carrie stood to the side, and Carrie 
took a curious glance into the coach, where a 
man sat, its only occupant. The next moment 
the coach had drawn up beside them, and the 
man, opening the door, stepped out on to the 
road, and bowed low before Carrie. 

1 1 scarce expected to find my son in such 
fair company, madam,’ he said, but with a 
little interrogative lift of his eyebrows. 

Phil’s face flushed, but he answered in a 
clear, steady voice. 

‘ Sir, may I have the honour to present to 
you Miss Caroline Shepley ? It has been my 
good fortune to make Miss Shepley’ s acquaint- 
ance since coming to Wynfo'rd.’ 

‘ Good fortune indeed,’ said Richard Mead- 
owes, though the name went through him like 
a stab. Nemesis, Nemesis ! — what was this ? 
A woman in a blue hood stood before him, who 
wore the very features of Sebastian Shepley, 
and did he dream that Philip called her by that 
name ? 

A good thing it is we do not see into men’s 
hearts as we look into their faces ! Carrie, as 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 153 


she stood all unconscious by the roadside in her 
blue hood, saw in Richard Meadowes only an 
elderly man, alert -looking, and of courteous 
address, who smiled on her with such a singu- 
larly pleasant and interesting smile that at once 
she wished to see him smile again. To this 
end she smiled herself, and with a gesture tow- 
ards Phil, she said very sweetly — 

‘ The fortune hath not been altogether on his 
side, sir, for indeed I should have fared ill at 
Wynford without your son’s society.’ 

4 Phil should know better than to ask a lady 
to walk out over such roads as these,’ said 
Meadowes, with a glance at Carrie’s shoes ; 
for that careless young woman, who was very 
vain of her pretty feet, had come out in a pair 
of smart high-heeled satin shoes — now, alas ! 
smart no longer. 

4 Oh, we are not come so very far from 
home,’ said Carrie ; ‘but, sir, Phil will wish 
to ride home with you. I shall not go farther 
now. ’ 

4 You must allow me to have the honour of 
fetching you home in the coach,’ said Mead- 
owes. He offered his hand to Carrie, and held 
open the door of the coach as he spoke. 

Carrie considered it very good fun to ride 


154 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


home in a coach and four. She thought what 
fun she would make of it in her next letter to 
her father. But she noticed how silent Phil 
had become of a sudden. He sat on the back 
seat and allowed his father to carry on all the 
conversation. 

At the gate of Lady Mallow’s house Carrie 
descended, and, with a farewell wave of her 
hand, tripped off up the avenue in her damp 
little shoes. 

After Carrie had left the coach all efforts at 
conversation ceased entirely between father and 
son. But when they drew up at the door, 
Meadowes, as he got out, signified to Phil that 
he would speak with him at once, in the library. 

Phil followed his father with a shrug which 
was not noticed by the older man, as he seated 
himself in a large chair, and indicated to Phil 
that he should stand facing him. 

4 Where did you meet Miss Caroline Shep- 
ley ? ’ was the first suavely put question which 
Phil had to answer. 

4 In the fields by the river, sir. ’ 

4 And what introduction had you to this fair 
lady ? ’ 

4 1 had met her before, sir.’ 

4 Where ? ’ 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 155 


4 In London. ’ 

4 At whose house in London ? ’ 

4 In the Park. 5 

£ And who presented you to her there ? 5 

4 A friend, sir. ’ 

4 What friend ? ’ 

4 I cannot tell you, sir.’ 

4 You must tell me.’ 

4 1 will not. ’ 

There was a short silence. Phil leant against 
the mantel-shelf looking straight at his father, 
and waited for him to speak. 

Meadowes folded his arms, unfolded them, 
leant back in his chair, finally spoke — 

4 Well, that is straight speech, my son, and 
mine shaH be as straight : After this time you 
shall not with my permission have word or 
look again for Miss Caroline Shepley.’ 

4 Have you aught against Carrie Shepley, 
sir ? ’ asked Phil. lie burned to tell his father 
all he knew, but the dread of bringing Peter 
into disgrace tied his tongue — he must try to 
extract the story for himself. 

4 1 have : let that suffice you. Philip,’ cried 
his father, starting forward in his seat, 4 Philip, 
you are too young to question my commands 
after this fashion. Enough that I tell you to 


156 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


have no farther speech with this young woman. 
’Tis not for you to gainsay me. ’ 

Phil drew himself up quickly from the easy 
lounging attitude he had stood in. 

‘ Sir, ’ he said, ‘ speak with Carrie ? I will 
speak with her, yes, and court her, yes, and 
marry her — that I ’ll do if Heaven so send that 
she ’ll have me.’ 

‘ On how long acquaintance have you taken 
this resolve ? ’ asked his father dryly. 

‘ Three weeks, sir. ’ 

‘ Ah, long enough assuredly for so unimpor- 
tant a step to be considered ! ’ 

Phil was too acute not to see that his adver- 
sary had scored here. He had, moreover, a 
trait of age seldom to be noticed in the young : 
he could laugh at his own foibles. He laughed 
now, well amused at his ardour, and, dropping 
lightly on his knees beside his father’s chair, 
took MeadoWes’ long white hand in his with 
his sudden irresistible impetuosity. 

6 Sir, will you not tell me the story of your 
heart ? ’ he said. 4 Sure every man alive hath 
felt as I feel now ! ’ 

i My heart ! ’t would be a history indeed,’ 
said Meadowes. lie spoke uneasily, for he had 
reached that stage of moral decay which refuses 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 157 


to answer any serious questioning. With a 
quick shuffle of the conversational cards he 
passed on : — 

1 A history indeed. — But to return to the sub- 
ject in hand from which you try to escape : you 
have known Caroline Shepley for three weeks ; 
you wish to marry her ; I do not intend that 
you should ; therefore there the case stands. ’ 

Phil had risen and stood before his father 
again. There is nothing more irritating to the 
finer feelings than to have questions, which we 
put in all seriousness, answered lightly. Phil 
had for a moment thought he might gain his 
father’s confidence, but he had been mistaken. 
He felt jarred and baffled. 

‘ I am sorry, sir. I shall take my own way,’ 
he said. 

‘ Then I shall have no more to do with you, 
Philip.’ 

‘ Then I shall have to provide for myself. 
You have at least given me brains enough for 
that, ’ said Phil hotly. 

‘ Do you think so ? Well, brains are a good 
gift, better perhaps than gold.’ 

Phil stared at his father for a moment in 
blank amazement, then he turned on his heel 
and left the room without a word. 


CHAPTER XX 


After Philip had gone, Richard Meadowes 
leaned back in his chair with closed eyes for a 
long time. The past was stirred in him Jby this 
quarrel. In the twenty years that had elapsed 
since Anne Champion’s death he had changed 
very little outwardly ; but the soul had trav- 
elled a long road these twenty years. How 
looking back over the ‘ Past’s enormous dis- 
array ’ he scarcely recognised himself for the 
same man he had been. He that had started 
so eagerly in the race, how he lagged now ! 
he had not an enthusiasm left, and smiled to 
remember all he used to have. At one time 
too he remembered having thought about things 
spiritual ; these did not visit him now. Once 
even he had feared death and judgment ; death 
now-a-days. had ceased to appall him, and for 
judgment he thought of it as an old-world 
fable. He could even think of Anne Cham- 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 159 


pion’s sad story and her cruel end with no more 
than a momentary pang of discomfort. 

But for all this the soul was still partially 
alive in this man. He could still suffer, and 
that is a sign of vitality, and if he had a gen- 
uine sentiment left it was for his son. 

His suffering indeed was of a purely egotisti- 
cal sort. The vast failure he had made of life 
struck a sort of cold despair through him ; Phil 
must make restitution for his failures ; and 
now the coldest thought of all assailed him : he 
had not Phil’s heart. He had lavished kind- 
ness on the boy all his life, yet sometimes Phil 
would look at him in his curiously expressive 
fashion and turn away quickly as if to hide the 
thought that leapt out from his speaking eyes : 

‘ I know you, I understand you.’ 

But whether Phil loved him or not, thought 
he, he could not afford to quarrel with him 
after this fashion. Everything else in life had 
failed ; Phil at least he must keep ! 

Meadowes rose hurriedly and went in search 
of Phil, who had gone out, it appeared, across 
the Park. 

The sun had come out now, after the rain, 
and its warmth drew up the smell of the mould 
from the streaming moisture-laden earth. 


160 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 

4 Earth, where I shall soon lie, ’ thought 
Meadowes ; 4 earth, that will absorb me into 
its elements again. Then the great failure will 
be at an end, the puzzle solved — no, not solved, 
only concluded : solved would mean another 

life, and that would mean Ah ! the opened 

Books, and the Face from which earth and 
heaven flee away, and the Voice crying : 
4 4 Give an account of thy stewardship , for thou 
mayest be no longer steward . ” Tush, why does 
that old nonsense so ring in the brain ? ’ 

4 Phil, Phil,’ he shouted ; he could stand his 
own thoughts no longer. 

It is always a difficult matter to retract one’s 
words. But it was a characteristic of Richard 
Meadowes that he could generally extricate 
himself from any difficult situation with grace 
and composure. 

It was, he admitted, quite unsuitable that, 
after having fairly warned Phil of the results 
of his disobedience, he should now retract all 
he had just said ; but it must be done. Phil 
must stay with him at any cost. 

So, putting the best face he could to it, he 
called and called again for Philip, who at last 
appeared : he had quite expected the summons. 

4 1 suppose he desires to forget all that has 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 161 


just passed,’ thought Phil, well aware of the 
sway he held over his father’s affections. 

‘ I think you called me, sir % ’ he said. He 
wore a very demure aspect. 

‘ Yes ; I wished to explain this matter fur- 
ther, Phil : ’twas perhaps scarcely fair irr me 
not to give you a reason for my displeasure. 
Let us walk on and I shall tell you all. ’ 

But it would, alas, have been as impossible 
for the Richard Meadowes of now-a-days to tell 
all the truth about any subject as it would be 
for a crab to discontinue the sidelong gait 
which is its inheritance ; so he cut out one half 
of the story and padded up the other half, and 
summed up the whole in one easy sentence : 
’Twas, in fact, jealousy on Shepley’s part 
caused our quarrel,’ he said — a half-truth which 
altered the facts of the case a little. 

‘ Who was the woman ? ’ asked Philip blunt- 
ly. ‘ I suppose she was my mother ? ’ 

‘ Yes, Anne Champion by name,’ Meadowes 
said, but hurried on before Phil had time to 
question him further. ‘ So you can see, Philip, 
that I have reason on my side when I bid you 
have no more to do with Miss Caroline Shepley. ’ 

‘ I scarce see why an old quarrel between our 
parents should come between us,’ said Phil. 


162 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


4 My dear Phil,’ said the candid father, 4 1 
will be frank with you — ’tis an old story, and I, 
for my part, would willingly bury it ; but I 
know Shepley for a man of vindictive passions, 
and I tell you this, that no power on earth 
would persuade him to give you his daughter’s 
hand in marriage. ’Twill spare you perhaps 
much pain and unpleasantness with him if you 
but take my advice and see no more of the girl. ’ 

Phil shook his head. But light had mean- 
time come to Meadowes. He would make 
peace with Phil yet — all would be well. 

4 Well, Phil;’ he said, 4 I have told you the 
truth of how the matter stands, and how pru- 
dence should guide you ; but moreover I have 
considered what 1 said to you in haste, and 
even should you persist in this folly I will not 
turn you from your home.’ 

Then with a sudden genuine impulse of feel- 
ing he laid his hand on Phil’s arm. 

4 Phil, Phil, you are all that I have — you 
must stay with me were a hundred Carrie Shep- 
leys in the case.’ Phil did not speak, but he 
took his father’s hand, bowing over it with the 
elaborate courtesy of the age. 

4 1 can only ask you, give this matter your 
very careful consideration,’ said his father, and 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 163 


with that he turned the conversation into an- 
other channel. 

But a few hours later — when the dusk had 
fallen, a man on horseback left Fairmeadowes 
bearing a special and important missive to Dr. 
Sebastian Shepley of London. The horseman 
had orders to spend as little time on the road 
as might be, and the letter ran thus : — 

4 Sebastian Shepley, — Richard Meadowes 
must acquaint you with the fact that, unless 
you take prompt measures for the removal of 
your daughter from the house of her aunt Lady 
Mallow, she will undoubtedly contract a mar- 
riage with the son of that man who has the 
honour to sign himself 


4 Your Enemy. * 


CHAPTER XXI 


Carrie —unconscious, sleepy Carrie — laid her- 
self down to rest that night in her four-post 
bed, and slept the dreamless sleep^f youth and 
health, till the morning light stealing through 
the curtains disturbed her a little, when she 
dreamt she was riding down Piccadilly in a 
coach and four with Philip Meadowes, and 
wakened with a laugh. 

And all this night, that had passed so quickly 
for Carrie, a man was spurring along the miry 
roads towards London, bearing a letter that 
was big with fate for her ; while at Fairmead- 
owes Phil tossed about, revolving something in 
his mind that did not seem to take shape very 
easily. ; and Richard Meadowes too lay sleep- 
less till the dawn. 

Three sleepless men, 4 all along of Carrie,’ as 
Phil had so vulgarly put it ! 

The cause of Phil’s sleeplessness was not 
far to seek, for, late that night, Peter had 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 165 


brought him a curious and disquieting piece of 
news. 

4 The master hath sent George a-ridin’ ex- 
press to town this night, sir,’ he had said, and 
then, in a whisper, 4 bearing a letter, sir, with 
the address 44 To Dr. Sebastian Shepley.” For 
George is no scholar, and came to me to read 
the direction, sir, and there it was, so sure as I 
do stand in my shoes.’ 

Phil, who was not without youthful affecta- 
tions, pretended to receive this intelligence with 
great unconcern ; but when Peter had gone he 
strode up and down the room in great agita- 
tion. Then he threw up the window, and leant 
out into the velvety spring darkness. Thoughts 
throbbed through his brain that the cool night 
air could do very little to calm. 

4 By Heaven ! ’ he said, speaking out into the 
darkness, 4 he ’ll not outwit me.’ 

So this was what his father’s sudden change 
of front had meant !— he wished to throw the 
blame upon Dr. Shepley if Carrie was taken 
away. Oh ho, that was very wily no doubt, 
4 but not all the fathers in Britain shall outwit 
me,’ said the arrogant Philip, and began to 
revolve schemes in his busy, clever young 
head. 


166 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


Towards morning he turned over on his pil- 
low, and fell to sleep at last. 

‘ I can but try my luck,’ he murmured as his 
eyes closed. 

The spring world was all a -dazzle with sun- 
shine again after yesterday’s rain, when Carrie 
came down-stairs. I regret to say that 6he 
came down-stairs late, bidding the maid ‘ not 
tell Lady Mallow ’ with such a charming smile 
that the austere elderly woman fibbed profusely 
to her mistress a few minutes later. After 
breakfast, Carrie went out on to the lawn, and 
stood, in apparent irresolution, looking round 
her. She smiled to herself out of mere pleasure 
of heart, and strolled away down the steps to 
the terrace, following her errant fancies. From 
the terrace there was a wide view far over the 
country. Carrie stood still here, shaded her 
eyes from the brilliant sunshine, and gazed in- 
tently in the direction of Fairmeadowes. 

Far away among the fields she saw some one 
walking by the river bank. Carrie was irreso- 
lute no longer. She did not stay to put on her 
hat and her gloves, nor stop to consider that 
she had not yet visited her aunt’s sick-room — 
no, she did none of these things, but ran off 
down the avenue, and, pushing through the 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 167 


hedge, walked with more sedateness across the 
fields. In the distance, now, she could hear a 
long clear whistle like a bird’s note. It came 
nearer and nearer, then Phil came up through 
the long, reedy, flowering grasses by the river- 
side, with both hands held out to her ; his 
shining eyes seemed to speak for him. 

4 I thought you were ,never coming, Carrie,’ 
he said, and took her hands in his. 

Hitherto their relations had been strictly un- 
sentimental, now they had suddenly become 
lovers ; without a word of explanation they 
both acknowledged it. 

4 Come and sit down, Carrie, I have all the 
world to say to you,’ said Phil, and he flung 
his arm round her as he spoke. To Carrie it 
seemed the most natural thing that Phil should 
be in love with her — she had known it indeed 
for ten days' past — she was not the least sur- 
prised at it, but what did surprise her now was 
to find that she too was in love, and that it 
was so natural — she seemed to have loved Phil 
always. It was no astonishing thing to her 
that she should sit here with Phil’s arm round 
her, and hear him say all manner of things that 
only yesterday he would never have dreamed 
of saying. What did astonish her was that he 


168 A D AIT GET EE OF STRIFE 


had not said all this long ago ! Why not yes- 
terday ? why not when they first met ? Had 
they ever been strangers ? ITad they not nn • 
derstood each other always ? It was ridiculous 
this sudden assumption of loverishness on Phil’s 
part ; they had been lovers from long long 
ago ! 

And from these happy thoughts Carrie was 
rudely wakened by what Phil was saying. His 
voice was urgent, his looks were anxious ; he 
was actually telling her a story, in rather in- 
coherent words, about both their parents, and 
a woman and a fight, and she did not take it 
all in. 

‘ But what has all this to 'do with you and 
with me, Phil ? ’ she asked, raising her face to 
his. 

Phil turned and shook her ever So lightly. 

£ Oh, you dear dull darling that you are,’ he 
cried ; ‘ do you not see they will separate us ? 
— take you away from me, Carrie — never allow 
you to see me again ? ’ 

‘ But I could not live without you,’ said sim- 
ple Carrie, unaware that the formula had been 
used before ; it seemed quite an original argu- 
ment to her. 

‘ N or I without you, of course,’ cried Phil — 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 160 


quite as unoriginal, in spite of his quick wits 
(the poor and the rich in wits as in wealth meet 
together in some things), ‘ and for that reason 
you won’t refuse me what I ask, Carrie — ’tis 
the only plan — I ’ve thought all the matter out, 
and unless you will do it, your father will be 
here to-night, and will carry you off to London, 
and you will never see my face again, as like 
as not. 5 

‘ Well ? ’ asked Carrie dubiously. 

‘ You ’ll run away with me, and marry me. 
’Tis as easy as the alphabet if once we get to 
London. ’ 

‘ Oh, but my father, ’ protested Carrie. 

£ Well, it has come to this : you must choose 
betwixt him and me ; he will never allow you 
to marry me if he knows. ’ 

i But ’tis so sudden, Phil ! — if I had even a 
day to consider the matter.’ 

‘ You have scarce an hour,’ said Phil ; ‘ by 
now your father has that letter, by another 
hour, if I mistake not, he will be on his way 
here ; by the evening he will have arrived. 
You must come with me now, now, now — 
or ’ 

The unspoken alternative of separation struck 
coldly on Carrie’s ear. Yet another love, 


170 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


older, steadier, plucked at her heart — she was 
torn between the two. 

‘ Ah, Phil,’ she cried, ‘ I cannot leave you, 
and I cannot grieve my father. What am I to 
do ? O what a sad thing trouble is— I have 
never known it before ! ’ 

(I doubt if she ever had.) 

Phil was not, perhaps, as diligent a Biblical 
student as he might have been, but his re- 
searches in that direction came to his aid at this 
moment. 

‘ Oh, you know, Carrie, there is Scripture 
for that,’ he said, c about “ leaving father and 
mother and cleaving to your wife” — that ’s the 
rule for men, and I dare swear it holds good 
for women too. ’ 

‘ Do you think so ? But I would not grieve 
my father for the world, ’ hesitated Carrie. 

Phil grew impatient, for time was racing on, 
the sun was high in the heavens now. 

‘ You must— you must ; can you bear to 
think of never seeing me again ? I ’d sooner 
miss the sun out of the sky than you, Carrie. ’ 

Carrie seemed to herself to be whirled round 
and round in the eddies of Phil’s passion ; she 
could not gainsay him, and yet she trembled 
and held back. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 171 


‘ Yes — ah, yes — I would go to the world’s 
end with you, Phil, ’ she said, 4 if it were not 
for fear to grieve my father.’ She rose and 
paced up and down the bank in an agony of in- 
decision, clasping her hands together and then 
flinging them out with a gesture of helpless be- 
wilderment. Never in life before had Carrie 
been called upon to make a decision of any im- 
portance, and now the two strongest affections 
of her heart warred together for the victory. 

Phil came and paced beside her, arguing, be- 
seeching, coaxing her by turns— till she turned 
at last in despair and laid her hands in his. 

4 1 will come with you, ’ she said. 

Phil did not allow the grass to grow under 
his feet. , 

4 Come then, so quickly as you can, Carrie, ’ 
he cried, 4 for each moment is precious. I shall 
return to Fairmeadowes and tell them I am 
gone out for the day. You must go home and 
put on your habit, and get one of your good 
aunt’s horses.’ 

4 1 am not permitted to ride alone, ’ said Car- 
rie, who saw lions in the way at every turn. 

Phil laughed, and put his hand in his pocket. * 
e Here, Carrie,’ he said, 4 give me your hand.’ 
Carrie all unsuspicious laid her hand in his. 


172 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


‘ That is what you must do to your aunt’s 
groom, my child ; there never was groom yet 
but understood that argument,’ said Phil. 

‘ All this, Phil ? ’ said Carrie, as she eyed 
the yellow coin. 

‘ All that, and say, as you give it, that he 
must come to Wyntown for the horse at five o’ 
the clock. ’ 

4 But he will wonder, Phil.’ 

£ Doubtless. — Oh, Carrie, but women waste 
time on trifles ! ’ 

Carrie was nettled by this remark, so she 
hastened off as fast as she could through the 
long meadow hay, determined that Phil should 
not find her so dilatory after all. 

‘ Meet me at the cross roads, ’ Phil shouted, 
as he ran off in the direction of Fairmeadowes. 


CHAPTER XXII 


Philip, who knew every step of the road be- 
tween Wynford and London, had some very 
disquieting thoughts as he rode down to the 
cross roads to meet Carrie. 

• Everything depended upon whether they 
could reach the half-way house at Wyntown 
before Dr. Shepley. For after Wyntown there 
were several roads which 'each led to town ; 
but between Wynford and Wyntown there was 
only one' road. Therefore if they met, they 
would in all probability meet upon that road. 
Phil determined to keep his fears to himself. 
It was a pleasant morning, and a pleasant ride. 
He found Carrie already waiting for him under 
the flickering shade of the beech-trees. 

‘ You see I can make haste when I please, 
sir, ’ she said, trying to smile. The smile, how- 
ever, was rather forced, and after a few ineffec- 
tual attempts at conversation they rode along 
in silence. 


174 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


‘ The deuce take that horse of your aunt’s ! ’ 
at last quoth Phil in despair ; 4 can you not 
make him go a better pace, Carrie ? ’ 

Carrie smiled, and shook her head. 4 My 
aunt will never permit her steeds to go beyond 
a slow trot, ’ she explained. 

4 Oh, your aunt be , ’ began Phil, and 

Carrie actually laughed outright at his irrita- 
tion. 

4 How you resemble a little boy I once knew 
who used bad words,’ she said, looking up at 
him under her eyelashes. 

4 1 ask your pardon, Carrie ; ’tis that old 
cow you are riding irritates me,’ he said, with 
an impatient flick of his riding- whip. 

Phil affected more assurance than he felt, 
however, as they dismounted before the door 
of the inn at Wyntown. 4 Heaven send Shep- 
ley is not here before us ! ’ he thought as he 
lifted Carrie down and gave the horses to the 
ostler. 

4 We shall come up-stairs and dine, Carrie,’ 
he said. 4 Do you not feel as though you were 
my wife already ? ’ He drew Carrie’s rather 
limp little hand through his arm as he spoke, 
and they went up-stairs to the inn parlour, 
which overlooked the courtyard. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 175 


4 You are wearied, I fear, Carrie,’ he said. 

4 Not wearied, Phil, in the least, but not 
very happy, ’ said Carrie, with a stifled sob. 

Phil affected deafness, and requested the 
landlady to bring up dinner as quickly as might 
be. 4 For I am near famished with the morn- 
ing air, Mistress Heathe,’ said he, with a smile 
to the good woman, an old acquaintance, 4 and 
so is this lady also ; but she is somewhat weary, 
so see no stranger comes in while we are 
here. ’ 

4 Just as you please, sir ; just as you please,’ 
said Mistress Heathe, as she bustled round the 
table, and made bold to ask for his father’s 
health. 

4 The same I did serve with a bottle of wine 
yesterday at this very hour. 44 Bad roads they 
are to-day, Mistress Heathe,” said he, for your 
father, sir, is ever so affable in the passing by, 
’tis a pleasure serving such gentry as he, to be 
sure. ’ And she gave a curious squint at Carrie 
meanwhile. 

That young woman made a show of eating a 
little, but in truth it was Phil who cleared off 
the viands, and Lady Mallow would have been 
quite pleased by the genteel appetite of her 
niece, if she could have seen how she toyed 


176 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


with a scrap of chicken, and shook her head at 
sight of an apple tart. 

‘ I am sorry, Phil, I cannot eat,’ she said, 
6 and somehow I cannot talk either, so perhaps 
we had best not try to talk. ’ 

‘ Never fear, Carrie ; ’twill be all right 
soon,’ said Phil, and he crossed over to the 
window and sat there looking out into the yard. 

Wyntown was nearly equidistant between 
London and Wynford, so, calculating that Dr. 
Sliepley had left town at the same hour as they 
had left Wynford, he must arrive at Wyntown 
not much later than themselves— so calculated 
Philip. He had no real reason to suppose that 
Dr. Shepley would come at all ; everything 
depended on the contents of that letter, but if 
he did 

There was a rumble of wheels over the cob- 
ble-paved courtyard, and Phil saw a very tall 
grave-faced man jump down from the seat of a 
post-chaise and come up to the door. Carrie, 
at the sound of the wheels, came to the window. 
She laid her hand on Phil’s shoulder, and 
glanced out. 

‘ Phil ! Phil ! ’ she cried, ‘ ’ tis my dear 
father.’ 

In the one glance she had got of his face Car- 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 177 


rie marked there a new stamp of anxiety she 
had never seen before— and it was she who had 
stamped it there ! She turned away and buried 
her face on the cushions of the settle. Phil, 
trying to be hard-hearted, affected no sympathy 
with her grief, but when at last there came a 
succession of quick gasping sobs, he crossed the 
room and bent over her. 

‘ Come, Carrie, you must not grieve so,’ he 
said rather lamely. Carrie sat up and dried 
her pretty eyes, that were all reddened with 
tears. 

‘ O Phil,’ slie said, with a little choke in her 
voice, 4 1 have never seen him look thus. Ah, 
I must see him — speak with him — I shall ex- 
plain ! ’ 

She rose and hurried to the door, but Phil 
barred her exit. 

4 ’Tis madness, Carrie — sheer madness this,’ 
he expostulated ; 4 you ’ll never see my face 
again if Dr. Shepley discovers you here with 
me.’ 

4 I cannot help it. Ah, Phil, do not be 
cruel ! See him I must — then I shall go with 
you — then we will be married. ’ 

4 You are a fool, Carrie ! ’ cried Phil, carried 
away by one of his sudden, hot fits of temper. 


178 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


4 44 Then we will be married ! ” — do you suppose 
for one moment your father would permit our 
marriage ? 5 

4 Yes,’ said Carrie, 4 1 think he would.’ 

4 Then you think nonsense.’ 

4 1 know him better than you do, Phil.’ 

4 Well, explain me this then — if so be he will 
not oppose our marriage, why doth he hasten 
from London at first hint of your meeting me ? ’ 

4 He could not forbid it did he understand all 
I shall tell him ; ’t would not be like my father 
to do so. Phil, you do not know him. You do 
not guess even at his generous heart — you •’ 

4 Generous ! ’ laughed Phil ; 4 no, no, not so 
generous as that. ’ 

4 Phil, I shall see him — whatever you say, 
I shall see him ! ’ cried Carrie, and she tried 
once more to escape towards the door. 

And Phil, fairly mastered now by his temper, 
flung the door wide open, crying out : 4 Go to 
him then, if you love him the best.’ 

A moment later he saw Carrie swirl down 
the narrow panelled passage of the inn into the 
very arms of Sebastian, who had appeared at 
the far end of it. 

4 Lord, Carrie ! ’ he heard Sebastian exclaim, 
as he laughed his jolly whole-hearted laugh and 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 179 


kissed his daughter on either cheek with more 
fervour than gentility. Then there was an in- 
coherent murmur of exclamation and sobs from 
Carrie, then Sebastian’s voice again : — 

‘ And how are you here, my girl ? Have 
you run away from her Ladyship and the influ- 
enza ? ’ 

1 Yes, sir — with Philip Meadowes, sir,’ said 
Carrie, whose downright nature equalled her 
father’s. 

Phil held his breath to hear what Sebastian 
would reply. 

£ And where is Philip Meadowes ? ’ he heard 
Sebastian say. A minute later Carrie came 
into the parlour, leading her father by the 
hand. There fell a moment of ominous silence. 
Neither of the men spoke, but Carrie, as she 
took a hand of each, and looked from one to 
the other in puzzled, pretty confusion, was the 
first to speak. 

‘ This is Philip, sir, ’ she said ; ‘ and indeed 
I am sure you cannot choose but love him. ’ 

‘ There may be two opinions on that point 
mayhap,’ said Sebastian grimly. 

For all the antagonism of their mutual rela- 
tions at the moment, Phil, with his extraor- 
dinarily sensitive nature, felt a sudden impulse 


180 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 

of liking to this man, Carrie’s father. ‘ Why 
have I not a father like that ? ’ he thought — 

‘ some one to rely on without a shadow of dis- 
trust.’ Poor Philip, for all his charm, was 
sadly alone in the difficult places of life, and 
youth, in spite of all its self-assertion, is con- 
scious enough of its own need. Beside this 
resolute masterful man, Phil felt himself, of a 
sudden, boyish and foolish, as he had never 
felt before. But, assuming a great deal more 
self-confidence than he felt, he bowed to Dr. 
Shepley and ‘ feared the circumstances of their 
meeting would scarce conduce to an agreeable 
acquaintance between them. ’ 

The older man did not reply to this remark ; 
but drew back the window-curtain so that the 
light might fall full across Phil’s face, and 
gazed intently at him for a few moments. 
Annie’s son ! Flesh of her flesh, bone of her 
bone — and Annie cold in her grave these twenty 
years ! How say some among us that there is 
no resurrection ? This is, instead, a world of 
resurrections, in which that man or woman is 
fortunate who can succeed in burying the past 
so deep that it cannot rise. Phil and Carrie, 
hot with their own impatient young desires, 
were only irritated by Sebastian’s silence. How 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 181 


could they guess at that blinding back -flash of 
memory that held him silent at sight of Phil ? 
How could they hear the voice Sebastian heard 
— an urgent tearful voice, 4 Phil, that hath got- 
ten half my sold ’ ; and again, 4 If ever you can 
help Phil you dl do it, because I gave him half 
my soul ,’ . . . and . . . 4 God give Phil a 
white heart? . . . and . . . 4 Come, Sebas- 
tian f ’ 

4 Sir, sir, speak ! ’ cried Carrie, catching hold 
again of her father’s hand. 

At the touch of her hand, at the sound of 
her voice, Sebastian came back to the present 
— the important present. 

4 By Heaven ! ’ he cried. 4 Once in life is 
enough to be robbed by Richard Meadowes ! ’ 

4 But, sir, I am not Richard Meadowes,’ said 
Phil. 

4 His son ; and twice accursed by that token. 
Never shall daughter of mine have my consent 
to marry with son of his — black-hearted lying 
devil that he is. ’ 

Carrie shrank back, scared at her father’s 
violence ; she had never heard him speak like 
this before. 

4 Perhaps, sir, ’t would be better for you and 
me to discuss this matter by ourselves,’ sug- 


182 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


gested Phil. There had, in fact, been no ex- 
planation given on either side as yet, a fact 
which Phil was the first to realise. Sebastian, 
beside himself with anger, at the sight of Car- 
rie in company with the son of his enemy, had 
never stopped to ask any questions one way or 
other. 

4 There is little to discuss, I know, Mr. Mead- 
owes,’ he said. 4 1 have information this very 
day of your intentions, sent me by your father, 
and these intentions I cannot even discuss with 
you ; I cannot give you my daughter. Even 
had you asked her hand of me in. a fair and 
honourable manner, I would have denied it. 
Now doubly I do so since you thought to ob- 
tain it by stealth —a coward’s trick, that savours 
of the man you have the honour to name your 
father. ’ 

Carrie, who knew the hot temper of her 
lover, held her breath for fear. But Phil did 
not fly into a sudden passion. He looked 
Sebastian full in the face, but though he flushed 
with anger, his words were quiet enough. 

4 Did I not know the bitter provocation 
which makes you speak so, I would not stand 
here and listen to you in silence,’ he said. 4 My 
father may be all that you say, sir, but ’ — here 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 183 


Phil hesitated for a breath — 4 he is all the 
father I have, and moreover has been a kind 
parent enough to me, as the world counts kind- 
ness.’ 

£ There— the boy speaks rightly,’ said Sebas- 
tian. 4 My words were perhaps over hasty ; 
but the larger fact of our quarrel remains — that 
you have induced my daughter to leave her 
home with you, instead of honestly asking her 
hand from me. ’ 

4 I knew, as you have indeed just told me, 
that that would be wasted breath ; ’twas the 
only thing left me to do ; now Carrie hath 
spoilt it all, and I suppose she means to return 
with you,’ said Phil, his anger redoubled. 

4 I presume that to be her intention, ’ said 
Sebastian, turning to Carrie as he spoke. 

‘ Sir, dearest sir, I must do as you command 
me now, ’ said Carrie. ‘ But ’ — and here she 
laid her hand in Phil’s— 4 some day I must go 
with Phil, for he hath all my heart.’ 

4 When you are old enough to take your own 
will against mine ? ’ asked Sebastian. 

4 Y es, sir. ’ 

4 When that day comes, you choose betwixt 
him and me. ’ 

4 If so be I must make the choice,’ said Car- 


184 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


rie, £ I must choose Phil ; I cannot, cannot 
forsake him.’ 

There fell a short silence, then Philip spoke. 

‘ You must admit, sir,’ he said, ‘ ’tis hard 
that Carrie and I should be parted by reason of 
your and my father’s old quarrels. But I, in 
my turn, must admit I did wrong to make her 
leave home with me as I did — for that I must 
ask your forgiveness, but, as I live, sir, I swear 
you ’d have done the same at my age ! ’ 

It was scarcely possible for Phil to harp very 
long on the serious string ; inevitably his buoy- 
ant nature resented the restraint it was under, 
and broke through it. Frustrated, disappoint- 
ed, angry, on the eve of being parted from 
Carrie, he must still find something to laugh 
at. And Sebastian, in -spite of himself, very 
much in spite of himself, found it impossible 
not to laugh also. 

‘ ’Pon my soul ! the boy does not lack assur- 
ance ! Yes, that I would ! ’ he said, but added 
a moment later, ‘ I laugh, but that doth not 
retract my displeasure one whit, nor alter a 
word of what I have said : Carrie shall never 
marry you an I can prevent it.’ 

‘ How long must I wait ere you consider Car- 
rie of an age to choose for herself ? ’ asked Phil. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE: 185 


4 Two years, at the earliest. You will then 
be of an age to judge for yourself, though 
young enough to marry, in all conscience. ’ 

4 And during these two years how much may 
I see of Carrie ? ’ 

4 Nothing. ’ 

4 1 may write to her at times ? ’ 

4 No, never ; you forget, Mr. Meadowes, 
that my object is that you should forget one 
another so speedily as may be. ’ 

Philip bowed, accepting the inevitable. 

4 If that be aU, there remains nothing but 
that I should say my farewells,’ said he. 

4 Nothing ; the sooner and the shorter they 
are the better, ’ said Sebastian. He looked at 
the two young people before him. Carrie stood 
scared and silent by the window. 

Phil crossed over to where she stood and 
gathered her up in his arms, kissing her long 
and fondly. 

4 If it must be. — Good-bye, sweetheart, I 
shah never forget,’ he said. And Carrie, as 
she raised her lips to his, smiled an almost 
happy smile. 

They vowed at that moment an unspoken 
vow, and parted undoubtingly. 

4 Come, dearest sir ! ’ said Carrie a moment 


186 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


later, when Phil was gone ; ‘ shall we return 
to London to-night — you and I ? ’ 

‘ There ! if you wish to see the last of him,’ 
said Sebastian. He pointed out to the court- 
yard, where the ostler had led out Phil’s horse. 

‘ Lord ! what a temper the boy hath ! ’ said 
Sebastian, for Phil, without one backward look 
to the window where Carrie stood, gave a sav- 
age lash at the horse, which bounded out 
through the archway, and swung round the 
turn that led into the Wynford road with scant 
direction from its rider. 

‘ The Lord send him safe at Fairmeadowes, ’ 
said Carrie softly, under her breath. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Carrie and her father found it a little difficult 
to explain her sudden flight to Lady Mallow ; 
but they patched up some sort of story that 
held together after a fashion, and before very 
long her Ladyship had forgotten all about Car- 
rie’s escapade, as she considered it. 

Carrie meantime had returned to London 
with her father, and the time passed slowly 
enough at first. But Carrie had not the nature 
that broods over the inevitable, and she quieted 
her heart better than most girls of her age 
would have done in the same trying circum- 
stances. There were all the cheerful businesses 
of home to attend to — Carrie was a notable 
housekeeper, — and these, after the forced idle- 
ness and gentility of her stay at Lady Mallow’s, 
seemed doubly delightful. It was much more 
agreeable to eat the pasties and cakes of one’s 
own making, she thought, than those prepared 
by the most practised cook, and, moreover, 


188 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


there was a new and inspiring thought at work 
in Carrie’s brain. Some day she would be 
cooking all these good things for Philip ! She 
did not stop to consider that Phil, like Lady 
Mallow, had servants to cook for him, so every 
day she would be trying new dishes, till Sebas- 
tian complained that the cuisine was too rich 
for his simple tastes, and Carrie blushed, and 
murmured something about her book of recipes. 
The afternoons, when her father was busy and 
her housekeeping labours were over for the day, 
were the longest time to get through. Carrie 
would take her needlework then and sit by 
the window, but she found plenty time for 
thought while she sewed, and her thoughts 
seemed always to travel in the direction of 
Wynford. Had Phil gone back to Oxford yet ? 
she wondered ; or was it possible he was come 
to town ? When could she see him again ? 
What was he doing ? All the ingeniously 
ridiculous questions and suppositions of lovers 
passed through her head in these long after- 
noons of sewing. In the evenings Sebastian 
would take her out to walk or to the play, and 
Carrie could not be insensible of the admiration 
she excited in public places. Then summer 
wore away and winter was come. Carrie in- 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 189 


dulged in some new and very becoming winter 
garments, and was more fidgety than was her 
wont over the fit and the style of them. "When 
these were ready she persuaded her father one 
fine Saturday afternoon to take her for an air- 
ing in the Mall. Sebastian hesitated a little, 
and professed himself too busy, but at last con- 
sented, and Carrie — exquisitely bewitching in 
her furry hood — walked at a slow pace down 
the Mall by his side, the admired of all ad- 
mirers. ' How there exists between some people 
a mysterious sympathy — telepathy, we call it 
in the nineteenth century, in the eighteenth it 
was not named — which premonishes them of 
meeting, just as the quicksilver in an aneroid 
will foretell the weather of the coming day. 
When Carrie dressed herself in all her bravery, 
and prayed her father for his escort, she was 
convinced deep down in her heart that she 
would meet Phil that day. She had no reason 
whatever to suppose that he was in town ; she 
had walked out every day since they parted 
and never met him, but to-day she felt certain 
she would do so. It came to her therefore as 
no surprise to hear her father say — 

‘ Carrie, there comes Philip Meadowes. ’ She 
did not need to be admonished of the fact. 


190 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


‘ May I speak with him, sir ? 5 
‘Ho.’ 

They had passed almost before the question 
and answer were spoken. Carrie did not even 
bow to him in the passing, but she smiled a 
brilliant flashing smile and blushed like a rose. 

‘ Phil looks older, does he not, sir ? ’ she 
asked, as they walked along — only her quick- 
drawn breath and the excited little pinch she 
gave to her father’s arm betrayed her excite- 
ment. 

Sebastian did not reply. 

It was the next Sunday that Carrie made a 
delightful discovery : Phil had begun to come 
to church at St. Mary Minories ! Carrie was 
just stifling a yawn behind her hand, when, 
across the little church, she caught sight of 
Phil. He sat just opposite her — why, why 
was the service so very short ? Carrie, who 
was as regular a slumberer as she was an attend- 
ant upon Church services, now sat forward in 
the great square pew, wide awake, and any ob- 
servant person must have noted how her eyes 
wandered across the church, and met those of 
the young man who occupied the opposite pew. 
Then she would flicker her eyelids and look 
down and blush an enchanting blush under the 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 191 


shade of the great feathered hat she wore, and 
then the same thing would be gone through 
over again. Phil, on his part, leant forward, 
staring unabashedly at Carrie. lie was de- 
lighted to observe that her sole guardian during 
church hours was Lady Mallow, and Lady Mal- 
low, like her niece, slept whenever it was possi- 
ble to do so. After they had mutually made 
these pleasant discoveries I suppose it would 
have been difficult to find two happier young 
people than they were that morning. Every 
circumstance seemed to be fortunate for them, 
for Phil saw to his delight that Lady Mallow, 
whose pew was near the door, seemed to be in 
the habit of letting all the congregation dis- 
perse before she left it. This quite suited Phil. 
He walked slowly down the aisle and passed so 
near Carrie that his sleeve brushed hers for a 
moment — for Carrie had risen, and now fumbled 
at the door of the pew in the most opportune 
manner. 

Carrie said nothing about this to her father ; 
she thought the meeting had been accidental ; 
but when another, and yet another, and yet 
another Sunday passed, and on each day she 
saw Phil, Carrie, out of the depth of her hon- 
est heart, found it necessary to tell Sebastian 


192 A DAUGHTEK OF STEIFE 

about it. She came and stood behind his chair, 
let her pretty white hands fall one over each 
shoulder, and laid her cheek against his. 

4 Dear sir, 5 she said, 4 I think I should tell 
you something — I think ’tis scarce honest in 
me to be silent about it.’ 

4 Eh ? 5 queried Sebastian, as he turned to 
kiss one of Carrie’s hands. 

4 I must tell you, sir, that I see Philip Mead- 
owes each Lord’s day at church in St. Mary 
Minories. I have never spoken with him, but 
I fear we look at each other most part of the 
morning. ’ 

4 Well,’ said Sebastian, 4 what of it ? ’ 

4 May I continue to go to church, sir ? I 
feared you might forbid me,’ said Carrie, her 
heart bounding with hope. 

4 The deuce take your honesty, Carrie. Do 
you think I can forbid you now ? ’ 

Carrie laughed with delight — words after all 
were not everything. If once each week she 
could sit and gaze at Philip, a year and a half 
would surely pass quickly enough ! 


CHAPTER XXIV 


There is no reckoning with the infinite possi- 
bilities for variation in human character, which 
is one of the reasons why all ‘ theories ’ of edu- 
cation are doomed to failure. Yet you will 
sometimes hear the cleverest men and women 
lay down general axioms, forgetful of this 
qualifying phrase, that may upset the entire 
calculation. 

Richard Meadowes — in other matters a man 
of considerable acuteness, fell into this common 
snare. The axiom which misled him was one 
which has been accepted — well-nigh proven by 
half the world : that youth is fickle and for- 
getful. Given fresh interests, new playthings, 
the young man does not live (said he) who will 
not soon forget what so lately charmed him 
most. Well, in ninety-nine cases out of a hun- 
dred this may be true ; but that elusive hun- 
dredth case must also be reckoned with if one 
would make certain. 


194 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


4 Phil must go into society and see other 
women ; ere six months are passed he will 
never give another thought to this Caroline 
Shepley, ’ said the prudent parent, who had in- 
deed, on his way through the world, seen many 
a man forget. Phil showed scant desire for 
society ; he declared his inclinations lay rather 
in the way of study, and expressed a special 
yearning for legal research. But his father op- 
posed this with wise moderation. 

4 There was of course no reason against it — 
Phil might please himself — he was, by now, 
old enough to choose his own path in life — but, 
if he might suggest it, a Parliamentary career 
offered greater scope for his peculiar talents. 
Nothing would be easier. A few years hence 
. . . time passed quickly — there was much to 
see and learn meantime . . . there was the 
world to see, not to speak of the men in it. . . . 
Should they go the Grand Tour of Europe to- 
gether ? . . . No ? — ah, well, there was time 
enough for that . . . He preferred London ? 
Well, there was of course no society like Lon- 
don, and the proper study of mankind ( 4< clever 
mankind, Phil, my son”) was certainly man — 
learn men and manners. He did not wish to 
go into society ? Ah, well, he might stay at 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 195 


home and do some reading — no time was lost 
in reading— he had worked too hard at Oxford 
and deserved a rest this winter,’ etc. etc. 

Phil listened to it all and smiled and took his 
own way ; he knew perfectly weH what his 
father’s thoughts were. 

At first, after his parting with Carrie, Phil 
was inclined to be rather sulky and moody, but 
when he returned to town with his father, and 
after he began to attend church with so much 
regularity,, he came to a more Christian frame 
of mind, and exhibited indeed such a markedly 
better temper that his father smiled to himself 
and said all was going well. 

Phil now showed no disinclination for soci- 
ety, and indeed entered upon its pleasures with 
peculiar zest. He even plunged deep into a 
flirtation — a hopeful sign — with a certain Lady 
Hester Ware, a pretty, witty young Irish- 
woman, without a penny to her fortune. Mead- 
owes was delighted ; he would have welcomed 
a daughter of the beggar Lazarus as Phil’s 
chosen bride at that moment. 

With commendable caution he paid not the 
slightest attention to the affair ; for he knew 
the contradictious human spirit, and Phil flirted 
on. But at last, when the matter seemed quite 


196 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


an established fact, he expressed to Phil his 
great admiration for Lady Hester. 

4 There ’s a clever woman ! ’ he exclaimed in 
conclusion. But his breath was taken away by 
Phil’s response — 

‘ Clever ? yes, deucedly clever. I hate clever 
women, and if you like ’em, sir, you ’re the first 
man that ever did ! ’ 

6 ’Pon my soul ! ’ exclaimed Meadowes, with 
a long whistle of astonishment ; then he added 
severely, 6 If you do not like Lady Hester, Phil, 
you do very wrong to trifle with her affections, 
as you have been doing this many a day. ’ 

i ’Tis, as you say, sir, an unpardonable sin to 
play a woman false — may Heaven forbid I 
should fall into it ! ’ said Phil in pious tones, 
and Meadowes, as he met the boy’s bright eyes, 
turned jmeasily away. 

Richard Meadowes had, you see, not added 
this cynical axiom to his collection : — that most 
men, when desperate about one woman, will 
plunge into a flirtation with another : so he 
was at a loss to account for Phil’s conduct, if it 
was not actuated by admiration. 

Phil was not really doing anything extraor- 
dinary — he was only trying to find an answer 
to the question £ how best to pass two years ? ’ 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 197 


—two years that seemed to him to expand into 
a lifetime as he looked ahead, for he was of an 
impatient temperament. Six months had 
passed before the happy expedient of seeing 
Carrie at church suggested itself to his mind ; 
and by dint of this device six months more 
were got over. But with the spring’s return 
came a crowd of tender remembrances, and 
Phil grew very sulky and despondent again. 
His father had gone to Fairmeadowes, but Phil, 
grown now very emancipated, refused to leave 
London ; ‘ The country was dull, ’ said he, who 
aforetime loved it so well. He had come to an 
end of his flirtation — and the lees of a flirtation 
are the sourest beverage ; he could gain no dis- 
traction from it any longer : he was at his wit’s 
end. 

As he walked moodily down the Square one 
morning about this time, Phil heard his name 
spoken, and, turning round, found Mr. Simon 
Prior by his side. 

Now, if there was a man that Philip disliked 
more than another it was this Simon Prior. 
A tall man, with shoulders so high that he 
seemed to be always shrugging them, and with 
prominent eyes that had a look of bullying 
challenge in them, he certainly did not carry 


198 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


innocence upon his face. He always assumed 
great familiarity with Phil — another point 
against him with the young man. But he, 
this morning, was so at a loss for a new shiver 
as almost to welcome this man ; could he pos- 
sibly yield him any amusement r ( 

‘ Yes, my father is at Fairmeadowes, sir,’ he 
said in response to the elder man’s greeting, 
and they fell into step. 

£ And you, Philip ? Once upon a time you 
too loved Fairmeadowes— why are times so 
changed ? ’ 

£ Age, sir, age, ’ laughed Philip. ‘ And in- 
deed I am become very old, for I can hit on 
nothing will amuse me these days. ’ 

£ A sad case. What have you tried ? ’ 

Phil was prudent ; he might almost have 
been a Scotsman from his reply — 

£ What, sir, would you recommend ? ’ 

£ Oh, there are many ways for passing the 
time, Philip.’ 

£ That ’s not all I wish. ’Tis— ’tis— oh, 

there ’s no new thing under the sun ! ’ 

£ Women ! — there ’s considerable variety 
there,’ began Prior, and he treated Phil to one 
of his bullying stares. 

Phil shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 199 


4 Well, if you do not fancy that — let me see 
— gaming, if you can gain or lose sufficiently 
large sums, is not amiss, for a distraction. ’ 

4 Which means that you wish me to play 
with you ? 5 said Phil. 4 1 shall do so gladly, 
sir, if so be you ’ll play for large enough stakes.’ 

So Phil played his pockets empty that fine 
morning, and felt the amusing sensation of im- 
pecuniosity for a few weeks. 

He came too into considerable familiarity 
with Simon Trior these days, a familiarity he 
had no wish to encourage, yet found it difficult 
to shake off. Wherever he went Prior was 
sure to appear — quite by accident, it would 
seem— till Philip began to suspect that his 
father had something to do in the matter. 
Once this thought had occurred to him, Phil, in 
sudden and hot resentment, behaved to Mr. 
Simon Prior with very scant courtesy. His re- 
sentment burned hotly also against his father. 
What was he that he should be spied upon in 
this way ? If his father distrusted him, why 
could he not say so to his face instead of setting 
this odious man to spy upon him and report his 
every action ? And he had been frank enough 
with his father when they first spoke about 
Carrie ; he knew and, apparently, acquiesced 


200 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


in his resolution to win her. Why then all this 
curiosity ? — 4 Bah, it was disgusting,’ said Phil 
in his indignation. A day or two later he left 
for Fairmeadowes. 

‘ You had best have me under your own eye, 
sir,’ he said in reply to his father’s surprised 
greeting. 


CHAPTER XXV 


Carrie, as may be surmised, never spoke about 
Philip to her father. She was therefore rather 
surprised when one morning he passed her the 
Gentleman’s Magazine , and pointed to a short 
paragraph in it : — 

‘ Mr. Richard Meadowes and Mr. Philip 
Meadowes left London yesterday for Paris. 
They purpose making the Grand Tour of Eu- 
rope, a circumstance which will deprive society 
of two of its greatest ornaments, ’ etc. etc. 

Carrie blushed, and felt very miserable, think- 
ing how long an absence that meant on Phil’s 
part — he would not be in church next Sunday, 
nor any Sunday for months to come ! — ‘ Ah, 
Philip, why did you go ? ’ she asked herself. 
Sebastian on his part was well content, and this 
perhaps made him acquiesce more than it was 
natural for him to do in a plan which Lady 
Mallow divulged to him that very afternoon. 


202 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


This was no less a scheme than Carrie’s en- 
trance into Society (with a large S). 

4 For a young gentlewoman of Carrie’s parts 
and appearance she leads by far too quiet a life, 
sir, ’ said her Ladyship. 4 And now that I am 
returned to town, I am resolved that Carrie 
shall make the figure she ought in Society. 
’Twas her good mother’s desire, I feel certain, 
and, moreover, Carrie herself will delight in it. ’ 

4 Perhaps you speak truly, Charlotte,’ said 
Sebastian, 4 and for certain my Carrie hath 
charms enough and to spare. I fear you ’ll 
have some difficulty with her adorers ere long 
if you take her into Society, as you call it ; but 
if the girl is of the same mind with yourself, I 
have naught to say against it.’ 

Lady Mallow thought Carrie rather lack-lustre 
over this generous proposal. She did not seem 
to wish much to go to balls and routs, though 
she was far too good-natured to show her dis- 
inclination very openly — still there was a want 
of that exuberant whole-heartedness in the pur- 
suit of pleasure which used to characterise her 
at one time. Carrie only smiled her charming 
smile and said — 

4 You are most kind, madam ; ’twill be most 
agreeable, I am certain. ’ 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 203 


She did not even kindle to great interest over 
her new dresses. What was the use ? Philip 
would not see them. 

Lady Mallow’s ‘circle,’ as she would have 
called it, received the beautiful Caroline Shep- 
ley with open arms. She might have danced 
her pretty little feet off had she had a mind to, 
and might have had her head turned round on 
her shoulders if the compliments she received 
had only seemed to her worth the getting. 
But, alas, Carrie listened coldly to all the com- 
pliments that were showered upon her. She 
judged every man she met by one standard— 
Philip, — and none of them ever came up to it. 
There was indeed about Philip a certain care- 
less elegance quite unattainable, or at least 
quite unattained, by the other young men of 
Carrie’s acquaintance. He was not particular 
about anything he said or did, yet it seemed to 
Carrie he could say or do with impunity what, 
if done by any other man, would have offended 
her in every way. Lady Mallow made mat- 
ters worse by continually urging Carrie to think 
seriously about this or that man who paid her 
attentions. 

‘ Indeed, my dear niece, you should not be 
so saucy ; for all your looks and the little 


204 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


money your good father may leave you, you 
will be left a maiden lady — that pitiable being, 
— if you despise good offers such as those of 
Mr. Sedgebrooke and Captain Cole, as pretty- 
mannered gentlemen both as you are like to 
meet, of good family (though untitled), and 
personable men to look at. Sedgebrooke hath 
a thousand a year to his fortune, and the Cap- 
tain, though not so well to do, is an officer and 
a gentleman — two very good things.’ Thus 
Lady Mallow. 

But Carrie was obdurate. 

4 1 cannot abide Sedgebrooke, madam, and 
for Cole, the sight of his hands is enough for 
me — bah, I hate fat hands : the hands of a 
gentleman should be thin and brown by my 
way of thinking.’ 

So both of these eligible gentlemen were re- 
fused. But as time wore on Lady Mallow was 
pleased to observe how much brighter Carrie 
had become. Her eyes had an exquisite 
sparkle, she seemed always smiling. 4 Society 
hath begun to brighten Carrie,’ she said to 
Sebastian, who growled, and remarked that he 
had never thought her duH. It was not Soci- 
ety, however, that was brightening Carrie, but 
the fact that Phil had returned to town. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 205 


She had met him one afternoon as she walked 
with her aunt in the gardens at Vauxhall. 

4 My dear Carrie, see there,’ Lady Mallow 
had said. 4 There is Mr. Philip Meadowes, the 
— I regret to say it — the natural son of Mr. 
Richard Meadowes of Fairmeadowes, the prop- 
erty which adjoins to mine at Wynford. For 
certain I thought it curious that he paid no 
attention to Sir James, but his infrequent visits 
to Fairmeadowes no doubt explained the cir- 
cumstance, for on every hand I have accounts 
of the affability both of the father and the son. 
They are beloved in the neighbourhood.’ 

The good lady rattled on long after the sub- 
ject of her discourse had passed by. She did 
not guess how much Phil was beloved in a 
neighbourhood very close to her at that mo- 
ment. Carrie hstened to her aunt’s talk with 
heightened colour and sparkling eyes. IIow 
different Philip had looked ! how much older ! 
He looked boyish no longer — and yet he was 
the same, her dearest Phil, who would come 
very soon to claim her now. . . . What would 
her father say that day ? Carrie’s joy was 
checked at the thought. 

For the last month or two of these two years 
of waiting Carrie could not be tender enough 


206 • A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


to her father. She was with him every mo- 
ment of his spare time, and sat by him in the 
evening, and held his hand till he laughed and 
asked her the reason of all this sentiment. 
Carrie laughed also, but her eyes filled with 
tears ; she knew the blow that impended over 
him. 

At last one night she determined to speak. 
She sat down beside her father and laid her 
face against his shoulder. 

£ Sir, I feel certain that ere long Philip Mead- 
owes will come to claim your promise,’ she 
said. 

She felt her father draw in his breath hard 
before he spoke. 

‘ I thought you had forgot Philip Meado wes, ’ 
he said at length. 

‘I — forgotten — oh, sir, so soon? What do 
you take me for ? 5 cried Carrie. She raised 
her face for a moment as she spoke. 

£ Then you mean to have him ? 5 

4 Yes, sir ; I can do no other thing.’ 

Sebastian rose, and pushed Carrie from him 
almost with roughness. 

‘ If you marry this man, Carrie, you part 
from me ; you cannot know all ’twould mean 
to me. You are too young, you have been 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 207 


ever too happy, even to guess at it. I repeat : 
Marry Philip Meadowes and part from me, or 
stay with me and part from him.’ 

Carrie in her agitation rose and stood beside 
her father. Then suddenly she flung herself 
into his arms in her impetuous childish fashion. 

‘ Oh, sir, I must — I must. I cannot part 
from Philip ; he is grown to be like part of 
myself,’ she cried in a passion of tears. 

Sebastian raised Carrie’s face to his and kissed 
her. 

‘ I do not blame you, Carrie — I cannot blame 
you, for you act too entirely as I would have 
acted myself. I only bid you good-bye. ’ 

‘ Could you never know him and love him, 
sir ? ’ asked Carrie timidly. 

‘ May the Lord forgive me ! — no, Carrie ; 
not even for your sake. ’ 

‘ ’Twill half break my heart to leave you, 
sir,’ said Carrie ; ‘ but ’t would break quite in 
two if I left Phil. Oh, what am I to do ? ’ 

‘ Leave me, ’ said Sebastian, and without an- 
other word he turned on his heel and went out. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


It would seem that this marriage was to cause 
sad feelings to more households than one ; for 
not many days after Carrie and Sebastian had 
settled matters after this sad fashion, Phil and 
his father also came to an understanding on the 
same point. 

4 Philip,’ said his father, ‘ I wish you would 
get married one of these days ; ’tis a good thing 
for a young man to marry early : it settles him 
for life.’ 

Far from wishing Philip to marry, there was 
nothing his father was less anxious for ; but he 
thought this a skilful way in which to discover 
whether his son still hankered after Caroline 
Shepley — a direct question was the last method 
ever employed by Richard Meadowes. He was 
therefore not a little taken aback at Phil’s 
reply: 

‘ Well, sir, that is exactly what I intend to 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 209 

do, if so be you will make me a sufficient settle- 
ment to marry upon.’ 

4 And — the lady ? ’ asked Meadowes. He 
looked down as he spoke, and twirled the ring 
he wore round and round upon his finger. 

4 Is Caroline Shepley, as you cannot doubt, sir.’ 

4 Caroline Shepley ! I thought, Phil, you 
had forgot all that nonsense long ago. Let me 
see : two years ago, is it not, since you first 
saw her ? And since then you have not seen 
much of her, unless I mistake strangely.’ 

4 Nothing. I promised her father to see 
nothing of her for two years. ’ 

4 You saw — Sebastian Shepley ? ’ 

4 Yes, sir.’ 

4 And have you had no communication with 
his daughter since ? ’ 

4 1 as good as promised him, sir ; and I am 
in the habit of keeping my promises. ’ 

4 Of course — of course,’ said Meadowes hur- 
riedly ; 4 but in two years’ time that handsome 
young woman must have found plenty other 
men to adore her charms. You make too sure 
of yourself, Phil, if you suppose she hath waited 
these two years.’ 

4 1 do not fear that I shall find myself sup- 
planted,’ said Phil. 


210 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


4 And should she think of you, are you in 
earnest in your intention of marrying her ? ’ 

4 More in earnest than ever before in life.’ 

4 You cannot expect me to provide you with 
the means for a marriage of which I disap- 
prove ? ’ 

Philip leaned forward, fixing his bright eyes 
on his father’s face. He held him captive while 
he spoke. 

4 Yes, sir ; I do not see how you can do other- 
wise ; for you are my father, which makes you 
responsible for me. You have brought me up 
in luxury, but you have not educated me for 
any profession. You could not suppose that I 
would always do exactly as you desired just 
because I happened to be dependent upon you 
instead of having a profession such as most men 
have ? I may be dependent on you for money, 
sir, but I am so only on condition that I am 
entirely independent of you in the conduct of 
my life. ’Tis your duty to give me the fortune 
you have always led me to expect ; but if you 
refuse it because I intend to marry Caroline 
Shepley, I must then ask you to support me for 
a few years more till I can learn to support 
myself and her. If you refuse me this money 
it will not keep me from marrying her — noth- 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 211 


ing will ; but I must repeat again that if you 
educate a man to expect a fortune at your 
hands, you cannot blame him for calculating 
upon it.’ 

Meadowes rose and paced up and down the 
room. 

4 What you say is true, Phil,’ he said at last ; 
‘ the money is yours. ’ 

4 Thank you, sir ! I trust you will not regret 
the decision.’ 

‘ Philip, ’ cried his father suddenly, crossing 
over to where the young man stood, and laying 
his hand on his arm, — ‘ Philip, as you love me 
do not marry this girl ! ’ 

There fell a short silence before Phil spoke : — 

‘ But the plain fact is, sir, I do not lorn you ! ’ 
he said. 

The whirlwind ! the whirlwind ! How it 
swept now over the man, who, for half a life- 
time, had been sowing the wind ! It came up 
and smote the four corners of the house of life 
where he feasted at his ease, and before the in- 
rush of the blast he trembled and was afraid. 

‘ Have I not done everything for you, Philip ? ’ 
he said, in a hard, cold voice. 

6 Everything, sir. Do not misunderstand 
me ; I am quite aware of all I owe you. ’ 


212 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 

4 What more can I do, Phil, that I have not 
done ? ’ 

4 Nothing, sir ! ’ 

4 Then why do you not love me ? 5 

4 Because I cannot trust you — never have and 
never can, — though ’tis brutal of me to say so.’ 

4 1 think ypu may go, Philip,’ said his father. 
He did not speak angrily, nor indeed did he 
feel any anger at Phil. But the end had come. 
His last chance for love in this world had 
failed. He had dreaded this for long. Year 
by year, as Phil grew older, the separation be- 
tween them had been graduaUy widening, an 
estrangement which the very similarity of their 
natures, in some respects, seemed to emphasise. 
Now the breach was open. And Phil had, 
without doubt, the right of the matter. 4 1 
scarce know how I looked that he should trust 
me,’ thought the unhappy man, 4 but I have 
renounced so much for the boy’s sake,— I have 
renounced marriage even, lest another son 
should supplant him ; and I doubt if Phil hath 
ever realised all this, else surely he had not 
spoken with such cruelty to-night. For the 
rest of it, youth is sharp to notice, and, when 
I consider, do I ever speak or act straightly 
now ? Once I did surely ? I cannot now. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 213 


My whole nature leans sidewise, like the tower 
of Pisa, toppling but still standing. ... I’m 
rotten through and through, and Phil knows 

it, — and Oh, forsaken, forsaken ! ’ 

He sat forward with his head bent on his 
clasped hands. 

‘ A sword shall pierce thine own heart? he 
said. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


After the plain speaking which had passed be- 
tween Richard Meadowes and his son, a re- 
adjustment of their relationships seemed neces- 
sary. It was not possible for them to keep up 
the former pretence of amity, yet Meadowes 
was anxious that no hint of their differences 
should reach the outside world. He called 
Philip to him one day and explained the case 
to him. 

‘ I would not have all the world know how it 
fares betwixt us, Phil,’ he said. £ I had rather 
keep that bitter knowledge to myself ; but 
things being as they are, ’twill be better for us 
now to live apart, — the one at Fairmeadowes, 
the other in town. I purpose after this date 
giving over the house in St. James’ Square to 
you, while I reside myself at Fairmeadowes. 
I care no longer for the amusements of the 
town.’ 

Phil objected at first to this arrangement as 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 215 


too generous. £ You will tire of a rural exist- 
ence, sir, ’ he said, ‘ ere six months are gone, 
and then — supposing me to have married in 
the meantime— I and my wife will have to re- 
arrange our establishment once more. 5 T would 
be better for you to keep the house in town, 
and let me have another and smaller one. ’ 

But Meadowes would not hear of this. 

‘ I cannot tell you, Phil, how it is with me. ’ 
he said, leaning his head on his hand as he 
spoke. ‘ And — may you never understand — a 
great weariness hath fallen over me, that is of 
the mind, not of the body. I care for nothing ; 
the game is played out. So make no further 
parley over this ; take what I offer and wel- 
come : as you pointed out to me ’tis but your 
due, in a sense. ’ 

‘ Then you fully understand, sir, that I bring 
Carrie Shepley to live in your house ? ’ 

1 Bring her and welcome — ah, you think that 
will bring you happiness, Phil, but you are mis- 
taken. Happiness is a creature of the fancy, 
she is never caught and held ; always flits 
ahead. You ’ll not find her in Carrie Shepley 
— no, nor in aught in this world. ’ 

‘ My dear sir, I fear you will be turning 
monk, when I hear you despise the good things 


216 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


of this world, as you do just now,’ said Phil, 
lie laid his hand on his father’s shoulder with 
the caressing way he had to every one. Mead- 
owes smiled. 

4 I know better than to think happiness lies 
there either,’ he said. — 4 But to return to busi- 
ness : you mean to marry this girl as soon as 
may be ? ’ 

4 So soon as she will have me, sir. ’ 

4 1 shall make you an allowance then, Phil, 
and the house in St. James’ Square ; and you 
understand that the outer world still considers 
us as a devoted father and son. ’ 

4 They will be right to name you a generous 
father at least, sir,’ said Phil, and he held out 
his hand suddenly to his father as he spoke. 

4 Don’t name me ungrateful, sir,’ he added ; 
f I see all you have done for me. ’ 

It was a very painful moment to them both, 
for each understood how one spontaneous ex- 
pression of affection on Phil’s part would have 
taken away all difficulty from the situation ; 
and yet the possibility of giving it was not 
there. Gratitude, however sincere it may be, 
if un warmed by love, is cold as icicles. 

Now that his affairs were arranged in this 
unsatisfactory fashion, Phil lost no time in pre- 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 217 


sen ting himself at Jermyn Street, to ask for the 
hand of Miss Caroline Shepley in marriage. 

Carrie stood at the window that evening 
looking out into the dusty little street, when 
all at once she saw Phil come up the steps and 
heard his knock at the door. Her father sat 
by the fire reading, unsuspicious of the blow 
that was about to fall. Carrie turned away 
from the window and came towards him. 

* Father,’ she said, in a very tense voice, then 
waited for a moment, not knowing what to 
say ; and Phil, who was very impatient that 
night, knocked again more loudly than before. 

4 I am sure my heart makes as much noise as 
the knocker ! ’ thought Carrie, as she listened. 
Sebastian looked up — 

‘Well ? what is it, my daughter ? ’ 

4 Philip , ’ said Carrie. 

Then as in a dream she heard Patty’s familiar 
voice announce her lover’s name, and a moment 
later saw her dear Phil stand beside her. 

4 Ilow are you, Carrie ? ’ he said, as if they 
had never been parted, and then he held out 
his hand to Sebastian. 

4 1 fear I come as an unwelcome guest, sir,’ 
he said. 

4 1 cannot welcome you, ’ said Sebastian 


218 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


shortly ; but he motioned to Phil to take a 
seat. 

‘ I need not tell you why I am come, sir,’ 
pursued Phil, who wasted no time upon pre- 
liminaries. 

‘ I have given Carrie her choice betwixt you 
and me ; ’tis for her to speak,’ said Sebastian 
for answer. 

Carrie had been standing behind her father 
during this conversation ; she came now and 
sat on the arm of his chair, bent down, and 
whispered a few words in his ear. He rose, 
and taking her hand in his held it for a moment 
and then laid it in Phil’s. 

4 She belongs to you now, Philip Meadowes, ’ 
he said. 

4 Oh, dada dear, love him too ! ’ pleaded 
Carrie, and the tears gathered in her blue eyes 
at the cold sound of her father’s voice. 

4 You ask the impossible, Carrie,’ said he. 

4 Perhaps, sir, time may soften the prejudice 
you entertain for me, ’ said Phil. £ Indeed I 
shall do my utmost to make Carrie a good hus- 
band. ’ 

4 Do not misunderstand me, Meadowes,’ said 
Sebastian. 4 The feeling I have against you is 
quite impersonal, else I had not given you Car- 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 219 


rie’s hand in marriage. I think you will make 
her happy ; but for all that I cannot be your 
friend, I cannot bear to look upon your face ! ’ 
He rose at the last words and left the room, 
and Carrie and Phil looked at each in perplexity. 
6 Ah, Phil, ’tis terrible,’ said Carrie, ‘ and I 

so happy ! my dearest father ’ 

Phil refused to look upon the tragic side of 
the case, however. He was far too pleased to 
think anything very far wrong. 

4 Dear heart, you must not grieve ; Dr. Shep- 
ley will forget after a time ; the best you can 
do is to marry me at once. When that is done 
he will forgive you. Pie thinks now to prevent 
the wedding by his displeasure, but when he 
sees that impossible his resentment will die out. 
Come, Carrie, the sooner you arrange for our 
marriage the better ’twill be for all concerned. ’ 
Perhaps Carrie did not need very much per- 
suasion. Two years of waiting had been quite 
long enough. 

4 I shall see my aunt, Lady Mallow, and she 
will decide the date for us, ’ she said, and then, 
as Phil prepared to go, she whispered, 4 1 shall 
make her arrange it soon. ’ 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


In spite of her happiness Carrie made a very 
tearful bride. The parting from her father was 
exquisitely painful to her, and not all Phil’s en- 
dearments could at first bring a smile to her 
lips. For Sebastian had told her that he could 
have nothing to do with her now, that their 
parting was final. The only way in which 
Carrie could hear of how he fared was by send- 
ing Peter to inquire of Patty, and Patty (a 
mature spinster), while she inwardly exclaimed 
over the turn of Fortune’s wheel which thus 
brought her former admirer again to her door, 
was fain to invent messages which would re- 
assure Carrie’s anxious heart. 

4 Lor’ ! Mr. Peter,’ she would say, ‘ ’tis dis- 
tressful to see the Doctor now-a-days. — And 
how doth dear Miss Carrie (as was) do ? ’ 

‘ Mrs. Meadowes , has her health perfect,’ 
Peter would respond, ‘ but is ever fretting over 
the Doctor, so I had best make up some mes- 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 221 


sage from you, and mayhap some evening you 
might step down to the Square yourself and 
make her more easy in the mind about him ? ’ 

Patty, in spite of her years and her wisdom, 
would shake her head coquettishly at this sug- 
gestion, and invent some message for Peter 
which had no foundation in fact. 4 The Doc- 
tor is well, madam, and eats hearty ; was out 
the most part of the day at the hospital, and 
dined with his friend Dr. Munro,’ Peter would 
announce. And on such fragments Carrie had 
to appease her hungry heart. 

Sebastian, poor man, had never been less in- 
clined for social intercourse ; had never eaten 
his meals with so little 4 heartiness ’ ; had never 
visited the hospitals so seldom ; but those two 
well-meaning retainers thought it kinder to 
suppress the true facts of the case — and perhaps 
they were right. 

4 Never fear, Carrie ; he will come round — 
parents always do ; they can’t do without us,’ 
Phil used to say. 4 1 wish you knew all the 
disputes I ’ ve had with my father ! ’ But Car- 
rie said the cases were not quite similar, she 
fancied, and refused to be comforted. 

4 ’Tis well I am so beautifully happy with 
you, Phil,’ she said one day, 4 for this trouble 


222 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 

weighs so on my heart that had I any other 
’twould break in two. 5 

4 Oh, no fear ! 5 laughed Phil. They led a 
very gay life, these two exceedingly irresponsi- 
ble young people, and indeed, older heads were 
nodded in wisdom, and prophecies were made 
that Carrie would have trouble enough with 
her wild young husband. Philip seemed, for 
the present at least, to have given up work of 
any kind. He meant to be in Parliament some 
day, he told Carrie, meantime he would enjoy 
himself and see the world. He was also letting 
Carrie see it, a process she much enjoyed, and, 
in Phil’s company, entered into with ah her 
heart, unlike the lack-lustre young woman who 
had gone about with Lady Mallow the preced- 
ing winter. Carrie was now introduced into 
far finer circles than those of her worthy aunt. 
Her name figured in all the reports of what we 
should in this vulgar age call 4 smart ’ society 
— a fact which afforded her a good deal of nat- 
ural mundane satisfaction. 4 The beautiful Mrs. 
Meadowes,’ 4 Handsome Mrs. Philip Mead- 
owes,’ 4 That most charming lady, Mrs. Mead- 
owes ’ — these and similar descriptions of her- 
self made Carrie dimple with pleasure. But a 
woman in such a position, so young, so beauti- 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 223 


ful, so unsophisticated, would, to defend herself 
aright, require a beak and claws, whereas our 
gentle Carrie had not even a sharp tongue 
wherewith to chastise her enemies. She en- 
tered society with no protection but simplicity 
—a much vaunted armour which, alas for the 
world, is in reality sadly vulnerable. Brought 
up as she had been almost exclusively among 
men — and honest men into the bargain— Carrie 
was quite ignorant of the wiles of. her own sex, 
and scolded Philip heartily when he ventured 
to warn her against them ; while, for the 
sterner sex, she entertained almost pathetic 
feelings of confidence and liking. The men did 
not exist (in consequence) who could resist her, 
and this more than any other cause at last 
opened Carrie’s eyes a little to the involutions 
of the feminine character. Alas ! too late ; 
half the women in London were jealous of her 
before Carrie was even distantly aware of it. 
She had smilingly accepted flowers and atten- 
tion from many a man before it occurred to her 
that other women might be wanting them in- 
stead. 

4 Just singe your wings, my dear butterfly,’ 
said Phil, 4 then you will understand what the 
candle is. ’ 


224 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


1 Philip, it must be from your father you take 
such base views of human nature,’ said Carrie. 
‘ For certainly you have not lived long enough 
yourself to learn such views. ’Tis not my 
fault that I am good-looking, and I do not be- 
lieve for a moment that other women dislike 
me for it. ’ 

‘ Wait — ah, just wait, Carrie. I agree with 
you that they do not dislike you for it — hate is 
the word.’ 

‘ Phil, I am ashamed to hear my husband say 
such things,’ said Carrie, though she laughed 
in spite of herself. 

I have said that Carrie liked and trusted all 
men ; but with one exception — she could not 
abide the sight of Simon Prior. 

‘ I cannot say what it is, Phil,’ she said one 
day, ‘ but to speak with Mr. Prior doth turn 
me sick. Pray/ my dearest, is he a great 
friend ? Could you not intimate to him that 
he visits my drawing-room too frequently ? ’ 

Prior had certainly got into a strange habit 
of haunting the house in St. James’ Square, 
considering how very lukewarm a reception he 
always received there. Carrie was one of those 
fortunate women who find it quite impossible 
to be anything except pleasant to every one. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 225 


She would sit, smiling and charming, beside 
Simon Prior, while all the time she loathed the 
sound of his voice. 

4 Do not be so pleasant to the man, Carrie,’ 
Phil suggested ; and Carrie in genuine amaze- 
ment opened her blue eyes widely : — 

4 Philip, I was most discourteous to him but 
yesterday ! Twice he hinted at his wish to 
accompany me on my airing, and each time I 
took no notice of his remark.’ 

4 But you smiled all the time, and seemed 
merely not to have noticed the hint, Carrie — 
instead of appearing purposely to ignore it.’ 

4 1 tried my best ; in honesty, Phil, I tried 
my best to be disagreeable, ’ sighed Carrie, 4 so 
you must do it for me if I cannot manage it. ’ 

Phil had no scruples. He waited for Prior 
to call again, and then set about finding some 
matter to differ upon ; but Prior himself brought 
about the dispute finally. 

4 1 should like a word with you, Philip, ’ he 
said, as lie rose to say good-bye, and Phil, with 
a quite perceptible shrug, led the way into the 
library. 

4 1 wondered — not to beat about the bush, 
for frankness between friends is. a good thing — 
I wondered, in fact, Philip, if you could accom- 


226 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 

modate me with a small loan — some £20, or 
perhaps less ; I happen to be very much pressed 
just now ; I — in fact, ’t would be a great boon.’ 

‘No,’ said Phil curtly; ‘I fear I cannot 
oblige you. 5 

4 Oh, 1 am sure you can. Your father would 
advance me the money to-morrow were he in 
town, and I look upon you as his representa- 
tive,’ began Prior. 

4 Were I in the way of lending money, sir,’ 
said Phil with great deliberation, 4 ’twould be 
to another sort of man than you.’ 

4 Ha, ha— very good — the poor ever with us,’ 
said Prior uneasily ; 4 but indeed you make a 
mistake when you take me for a rich man. I 
am constantly pressed for funds, as you see me 
to-day ; you could scarcely find a needier ob- 
ject for accommodation, you ’ 

4 1 could easily find a better, ’ said Phil. 

4 Philip, you call my honour in question ! ’ 
cried Prior. 

4 1 would never trouble to do so, ’ said Phil ; 

4 because I do not consider that you have got 
any.’ 

For far less provocation men in those fight- 
ing days had risked their precious lives, as Phil 
was well aware. He had calculated the 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 227 


chances of having to fight with Prior, and his 
calculations were verified : Prior had no inten- 
tion • of fighting ; he had swallowed many an 
insult. 

£ For your father’s sake, Philip, I will not go 
further into the dispute, ’ he said with the sorry 
attempt at dignity of a man who knows himself 
in the wrong.' 

Philip walked to the door and flung it open. 

‘ Adieu, Mr. Simon Prior,’ he said with 
great mock ceremony. And Carrie was not 
troubled with any more visits. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


Simon Prior had come out to Fairmeadowes to 
beg. It was not the first time he had begged 
from Richard Meadowes, and he had little 
shame about doing it. He even assumed a 
slightly bullying air as he made his modest de- 
mand for £100 — he had not gone so high with 
Philip. 

Meadowes sat by the fire in his usual easy 
lounging attitude. He did not look like a man 
inclined to dispute anything, and he listened 
quietly to Prior’s demand. But after he had 
considered it for a moment he spoke with the 
greatest decision of tone. 

‘ No, Prior ; I have decided to give you no 
more. You ’ve been bleeding me these twenty 
years, now you ’ll bleed me no longer.’ 

Prior stood aghast, and Meadowes continued, 
‘ Angry, I suppose ? Well, take what revenge 
you will. Mine is an old story now. Your 
own character, such as it is, will suffer full as 


A. DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 229 


much as mine should you make it public. ’ He 
paused and drew his hand slowly across his 
eyes. ‘ The fact is, I care no longer : I have 
nothing to lose : life is done — I would it had 
never begun for me. Mistake upon mistake ; 
and now a dead heart. D’ you remember the 
old torment ? They used to build living men 
into a wall slowly with bricks and mortar ; 
every day the tomb closed more and more round 
them. Well, I am alive still, but the wall is 
closing round me ; it hath reached the heart 
now and presses sore upon it— wellnigh hath 
pressed the life out of it. I have built myself 
into this living tomb with my own hands too— 
there ’s the special torture. ’ He paused, won- 
dering if Prior understood one half of his mean- 
ing. He did not ; the higher feelings had been 
left out of his nature ; he did not even guess at 
his friend’s mood. 

‘ What ails you to-day, Meadowes ? ’ he 
said ; ‘ truly this country life is too quiet for 
you by half. Come, we shall return to town, 
play high, and forget care.’ 

‘ I have no care,’ said Meadowes. 

‘ What then ? ’ 

‘ A dead — rather a dying — heart, I tell you, 
only you do not understand.’ Then, as impul- 


230 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 

sive men will often do, Meadowes told out all 
his sorrow to this man, just because he did not 
understand — it was the same relief as it would 
have been to talk aloud to himself. 4 Phil loves 
me no more ; there ’s the fact on ’t— I doubt if 
ever he hath loved me. I ’ve borne a measure 
of disgrace for him, I ’ve renounced marriage 
for his sake, I ’ve nurtured him delicately, and 
willed half my fortune to him. I ’ve loved 
that boy foolishly all his days, and now he 
turns and tells me he doth not love me. Where 
doth the advantage lie of loving aught but one- 
self ? There ’s no return for love, and a fool 
I ’ve been to sacrifice myself for any man. 
’Tis the last lesson I needed. All these fine 
theories we dealt in in our youth, theories of 
44 love” and 44 sacrifice” and so on, are purest 
moonshine. But with the last shreds of belief 
I had in them, goes my last shred of caring for 
life.’ 

4 Tush, Meadowes ! I must reason with 
you, ’ said Prior. 4 A man at your time of life 
to speak thus ! Come, Philip hath treated you 
shamefully, like the young scoundrel that he 
is. Let me advise you on this point. Bring 
him to his senses by some judicious coldness, 
and indeed this is not the first time 1 have 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 231 


urged you to marry. Now is the time ; let no 
sentiments for a thankless knave like Philip 
keep you from it now ; turn him off with a 
shilling — he deserves no more.’ 

Prior spoke earnestly, delighted to find some 
way of repaying the insult he had received at 
Phil’s hand. He flattered himself that he was 
making an impression, for his listener sat and 
listened to it all in silence. 4 Now, on the score 
of our old friendship — ’ he went on, but Mead- 
owes suddenly interrupted him. 

‘ There, I hate the very sight of you,’ he 
cried. 4 No friendship hath been betwixt us, 
only the bonds of iniquity, and heavy they ’ve 
been. I’ll have it no more ; I’ll go to hell 
alone— not in your company.’ 

Prior stood dumb with surprise ; so long they 
had held together for evil, he could scarcely 
credit that the rupture had come at last. 

‘ But ’ he began. 

‘ No more, no more,’ said Meadowes, and he 
rose from his seat, and stretched out his hands 
in a sudden agonised way. 4 Don’t you know 
me yet. Prior ? 1 can't be true. Sooner or 

later I turn upon every man that leans on me. 
Man, I know myself — cruelly well ; this is but 
the old story. You ’ ve served my turn, I need 


232 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


you no more, so I leave you. Yes, sink or 
swim for me. ... You should have known 
better than to trust me.’ 

4 I ’ve done your dirty work these twenty 
years,’ said Prior, with unblushing veracity, 
4 and now you forget it all.’ 

4 Yes, I mean to forget,’ 

4 But I am indeed hard pressed for money. ’ 

4 Well, find it elsewhere.’ 

4 Is this final ? ’ 

4 Quite.’ 

Prior moved towards the door, but he paused 
for a moment on the threshold and looked back. 

4 They call you Judas in the Clubs,’ said he, 
4 and they are right— no man ever yet trusted 
you but he was betrayed.’ He walked out, 
slamming the door behind him, and Meadowes 
listened to hear his footsteps die away along 
the passage. 

4 A bad man, ’ he meditated, 4 but not as bad 
as myself, though the world takes him to be 
worse. He ’ll end on the gallows — the world 
will blame him ; but the blame will lie with 
me — I who made him what he is — and I shall 
sleep with my fathers in the chapel like a 
Christian, ’ 

Prior meantime walked away through the 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 233 


quiet winter woods — a figure which accorded 
ill with rural scenes, he so carried with him the 
savour of towns, the atmosphere of dissipation. 
A miserable man — to be moral, — pressed for 
money and at an end of his resources, at an 
end of pleasure and beginning to realise it ; 
angry, baffled, rejected. He stood to take a 
last look at Fairmeadowes, lying so peacefully 
among its wooded fields, with the placid river 
•flowing past it, and then, overpowered by an- 
ger, he shook his fist in the air and cursed aloud 
in that silent place. 

‘ By ! ’ he cried, ‘ you ’ll pay me yet 

for all I ’ve done these twenty years ! I ’ll have 
your money, or ’ — his raised right hand fell — 
‘ wanting that, I ’ 11 have your blood. ’ 


CHAPTER XXX 


As time went on Society began to surmise that 
Philip Meaclowes and his father were not upon 
the best of terms. The elder man seldom came 
to town, and when he did, never stayed at his 
own house, then tenanted by Philip ; and this 
of itself was eloquent of differences. But as 
against this was the very fact of Philip’s ten- 
ancy of the house— an arrangement which 
seemed to point to amiable relationship. The 
world wondered, but could do no more. 

The feud between Meadowes and Simon Prior 
had, owing to peculiar caution on Prior’s part, 
never got abroad either ; he preferred to be 
still considered everywhere as Meadowes’ friend. 

One night (it was the night of the 9th of 
January, as Philip had afterwards reason 
enough to remember) fortune drew together in 
her net at a certain gaming-house, not a thou- 
sand miles from Pall Mall, Richard Meadowes, 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 235 


Philip, and Simon Prior. Phil and his father 
met quite easily ; their quarrel had not been so 
serious as to make this the least difficult for 
them ; but the rest of the men there watched 
the meeting with great curiosity. If they had 
only known, they had better have turned their 
scrutiny upon Meadowes’ meeting with Prior ; 
the cordiality with which these gentlemen met 
might perhaps, to the observant and cynically- 
minded, have given a key to their relations. 
But there probably was no cynic in the com- 
pany ; so Phil was the object of interest. 

‘ My dear sir,’ said Phil, as he stood beside 
his father, laying his hand on his shoulder, 
‘ you have surely come to town unexpectedly ? 
And but just in time to see me lose some 
money, or I am mistaken. Yesterday I won 
it— to-night (to make odds even) I am come to 
lose to the same man. Come, you shall watch 
our play, ’twill be fairish sport, I don’t doubt. 1 

They set them down — Phil and his opponent 
— and a circle gathered round them to watch 
their play. Philip played out of the sheerest 
love of excitement, like a schoolboy, laughing 
and jesting as he threw down his money, the 
other man more gravely, pondering his cards. 
The play ran high ; Philip had staked and lost 


236 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


all the money he had with him, and yet he 
played on. It grew late. 

4 Come, sir,’ he said, and he leant across the 
table towards his father, with his sunny smile, 
4 I must play schoolboy again and have my 
father pay my debts.’ Meadowes, bewitched 
like every one else, handed him over all the 
gold pieces he carried, and thought himself 
weH paid by Phil’s smile. 

4 How I ’ve cleared out my father,’ he said, 
4 and myself, I ’ll play you for my lace ruffles, 
good ones they are ; come on, sir, ’ and he tore 
off the ruffles carelessly enough, and flung 
them on the table. 

4 How you ’ll have my coat, ’tis a new silk 
one— there it goes,’ he cried, flinging off the 
fine garment in question, as he leant forward 
with sparkling eyes to cut the cards. 

4 Lost again ! My diamond shoe-buckles 
now — there— you have them also ? Gad ! I ’ll 
be stripped before I ’ m done — weH, the shoes 
themselves. Lost them too ! ’ and with a shout 
of laughter Phil flung down his cards and rose 
from the table. 

4 1 must get home without my shoes and 
without my coat ! — I thank you ; no, sir, I ’d 
like the sensation, "We ’ll taste the sweets of 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 237 


poverty on a chill winter’s night for once — to 
walk home with empty pockets, without a coat 
or shoes. By George, that ’s something new ! ’ 

4 Phil, put on your coat ; for all the world 
you act like a child,’ laughed his father. And 
Phil certainly looked babyish enough as he. 
stood there shoeless, in his ruffled cambric 
shirt, laughing and careless. 

But Phil would not be persuaded. The coat 
was his no longer, said he, nor the shoes. 

4 Come, sir, if you are going my way, ’ he 
said, bowing to his father, and -they stepped 
out into the passage together. 

4 We may go so far in company,’ said Mead- 
owes, as they passed out. 

The other men who had been in the room 
waited to exchange comments on the father 
and son, only Simon Prior, after a few minutes, 
found that it was growing late, and he must 
make his way homewards. 

He went through the passage and looked out 
into the inky darkness of the moonless January 
night ; the sky was of a bluish blackness, only 
a shade less dense than the earth it canopied, 
and unpierced by any star. Prior listened in- 
tently for a moment, but no footsteps echoed 
down the street. Great London was asleep in 


238 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


these early morning hours, for it was nearing 
three o’clock. Once and again as he walked 
along Prior stopped to listen, then he bent 
down and slipped off his shoes, crammed one 
into each of the huge pockets of his long-skirted 
coat, and with noiseless flying footsteps sped 
down the street : the darkness received him. 

Meantime Phil and his father were walking 
together in the direction of St. James’ Square ; 
Phil, gay as was his wont when excited, was 
pressing Meadowes to come home with him. 

4 You have scarce seen me for months, sir, 
and Carrie is a stranger to you,’ he said. 

4 I cannot come to-night, Phil, mayhap to- 
morrow, ’ said Meadowes, as they paused at the 
corner where their ways parted. 

4 Carrie will think me lost ; ’tis three of the 
clock at the least,’ said Phil, and his father 
laughed. 

4 You have not yet acquired that fine indiffer- 
ence which comes with practice, Phd,’ he said. 

4 You mention your wife with too palpable in- 
terest. ’ 

4 Maybe, maybe,’ laughed Phil, whose heart 
indeed beat quicker at the sound of Carrie’s 
name. He held out his hand then and bade 
Meadowes goodmight. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 239 


‘ All, Philip, Philip, if only you loved me ! ’ 
thought Meadowes, as he turned and walked 
away down the dark street. Phil was going 
home to the wife he adored, while he — how 
bleak a loveless life like his was, to be sure ! 
There was not a human being that would mourn 
his death — even Phil would not think twice of 
it — more than that, ‘ I believe he would wel- 
come it,’ he thought bitterly ; ‘ for all his 
frankness and his charm he cares nothing for me : 
I sometimes think he doth veritably hate me. ’ 
Sad thoughts these on a winter’s night. 
‘ Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, thou dost not 
bite so nigh,' he said, feeling the chill at his 
heart. A moment later he heard a step behind 
him, a light, unshod step, surely Phil returned. 
Could it be ? Think if Phil were to come be- 
side him in the darkness, touch his arm, speak 
one kind word, say that now all would be right 
between them ! Surely even now the wilder- 
ness would rejoice — would blossom as the rose 
— at the coming of love. Surely he would 
leave his old crooked ways, live even yet a 
white, clean, straight year or two before all 
was ended, return, if he might do no more, to 
the attitude of heart that has at least a desire 
for good ! 


240 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


These, and half a hundred more, thoughts 
crowded through his fancy in that silly moment 
of expectancy. But it was a moment so dear 
— like the sudden thawing of a long frost — that 
he dared scarcely break it. His voice was thick 
with feeling when he spoke. 

‘ Why are you returned, Phil ? ’ he asked. 
It was too dark to make out more than the out- 
line of the man’s head against the sky, but the 
sound of his shoeless feet, as he walked along- 
side, convinced Meadowes that Phil was there. 

‘ Why are you returned ? ’ he questioned 
again. There was no reply, then the man, 
with a sudden, quick movement, drew his sword 
and turned upon Meadowes, pinning him against 
the wall. He fell almost without a groan. 
The man knelt with one knee pressed down on 
Meadowes’ chest, as if to squeeze his shorten- 
ing breaths out of him, and spoke loudly in his 
ear. 

‘ I am Philip , ’ he said. 

Meadowes heard even through his clouding 

senses the high bell-clear voice. ‘ Is it 

Merciful Lord ! doth my Phil torment me for 
my sins ? . . . his voice. . . . Ah, surely 
not Phil,’ he thought. 

‘ I am Philip, ’ repeated the man, rising 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 241 


hastily ; he dared not tarry even for the sweet- 
ness of revenge. 

‘ Philip, Philip ! — Ah, undone, undone ! ’ 
murmured the dying man. He writhed over 
on the pavement as the weight of his adver- 
sary’s knee was lifted off him ; pressed his 
hand against his side as the last agony seized 
him, and the spirit, driven so roughly from its 
dwelling, lingered for a second on the threshold 
and looked back. In that second fifty years 
were reviewed like one day : childhood at 
sweet Fairmeadowes among the fields, youth 
and manhood, war and love and treachery, and 
all the busyness of life, passed before him in a 
flash. One remembrance stood out with ex- 
traordinary clearness : — the memory of a prayer 
offered long ago in one of the old City churches 
— a strange, seemingly unanswered prayer. 
Here, late in time, was its bitter answer. And 
then this memory passed also, and one only 
thought remained — Philip. 

All this in a second’s time. In that second, 
as the murderer rose to his feet, the glimmer of 
a lantern fell into the pressing darkness, and a 
hand appeared out of the gloom, clutched, and 
held him. 

Meadowes did not see the light. His eyes 


242 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


were closed, but the one thought of Philip held 
possession of his brain. 

‘ Run, Phil , run , lest this bring you to 
trouble ,’ he cried with his latest breath ; the 
two struggling men could not choose but hear. 
The watchman let fall his lantern and they 
wrestled in the darkness, then with one great 
wrench the other freed himself, and flung aside 
his adversary, who fell heavily. It took him a 
moment to rise, and then he stood stupidly for 
a brief space to listen in what direction the 
murderer ran. But even the silent street 
scarcely echoed .back the light footsteps of the 
man wearing no shoes, as he scudded away 
into the darkness. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


Carrie had sat up late that night waiting for 
Philip to come in, then she grew sleepy, went 
to bed, and fell asleep. But her sleep cannot 
have been very sound, for the heavy foot of the 
watch who passed in the street below, and the 
echo of his voice as he chanted out the hour, 
wakened her widely. 

4 Three o’clock of a January night : a cold 
dark night with no moon. ’ He went under the 
window and his footsteps died away. 

Carrie rubbed her eyes, and, saw that the fire 
still burned brightly, lighting up the big room 
with its heavy hangings and huge pieces of 
furniture. 

4 Where can Phil be ? why has he never 
come in ? ’ asked Carrie, a little anxiously. 
She sat up to listen if she could not hear any 
sound in the house, tossing back her long red 
curls over her shoulder. Yes, some one was 
coming softly up-stairs ; she knew the footstep 


244 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


well. A minute later the door opened and 
Philip came in. He wore no coat nor any 
shoes. 

‘ Hullo, Carrie ! are you too keeping a vigil ? ’ 
he said lightly, as he paused at the door. 

4 Phil ! where is your coat ? and why are 
you without shoes ? ’ cried Carrie. 

‘ I played them away. I played the coat off 
my back and the shoes off my feet. I scarce 
ever before had such sport. And let me lie 
down, Carrie, my dear, for I am dog tired. ’ 

And with that Phil cast himself down on the 
bed just as he was, rolled over on his side, 
dragged the satin quilt over his shoulder, and 
was asleep before the words were well said. 

Carrie tried ineffectually to waken him. 

£ You will catch a chill for certain, Phil,’ she 
said ; but Phil would not listen, so she fetched 
a cloak and covered him with it as tenderly as 
a mother might wrap up a sleeping child, then 
lay down herself and tried to sleep. But she 
was wakeful for long, and thought of many 
things ; of long ago, and the visit she had paid 
Phil in that very room where he lay, in that 
very bed, a sick and a very bad-tempered 
child. How strange the turns of Fortune’s 
wheel were, to be sure ! Then she thought of 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 245 


her father, and longed and longed to see him. 
4 1 believe he will find me somewhat altered. 
I am become such a fine lady now-a-days,’ 
thought she, smiling in the darkness. At last 
she fell asleep, and dreamed pleasant dreams of 
meeting her father, and finding their quarrel 
had all been a mistake ; and then suddenly she 
woke with a great noise going on down-stairs. 
There came a terrific thunder at the outer door, 
a confusion of voices, and then footsteps came 
up the staircase. Then Peter’s voice threaten- 
ing, expostulating : — 

£ I ’ll tell my master. Stand back ! I tell 
you you are mistook. ’ 

6 Phil,’ cried Carrie, shaking him lightly. 
‘ Phil, there is something wrong ! ’ 

Phil grumbled in his sleep. But the next 
moment the door was opened, and Peter, white 
and agitated, entered the room. 

‘ Sir, sir, there is some mistake ! For the 
love of Heaven waken and come out here. ’ 

As he spoke two men followed him into the 
room, and one of them advanced to where Phil, 
yawning and rubbing his eyes, sat up on the 
edge of the bed, exclaiming impatiently to 
Peter, 

‘ What the deuce is all this, Peter ? ’ 


246 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


£ I arrest yon in the King’s name, ’ said one 
of the men, and he laid his hand on Phil’s 
shoulder. 

Phil was wide awake at last. 

£ My good fellow,’ he said, 6 you are indeed 
under some mistake, and you surely choose a 
strange place where to arrest me, and show 
little consideration for this lady’s feelings.’ 

£ I ’m sorry indeed, my lady,’ said the officer, 
as he bowed to Carrie ; £ but my business is to 
secure my prisoner. ’ 

Phil stood up. 

‘ Of what crime am I accused, then, my good 
fellow ? ’ 

The man hesitated — glancing at Carrie, but 
Phil laughed. 

‘ My wife can hear aught I ’m accused of,* 
he said. 

c Of the murder of Richard Meadowes , ’ said 
the man low into Philip’s ear. He did not 
mean Carrie to hear ; but she, leaning forward, 
caught the words. There was a moment’s dis- 
mayed silence. Then Carrie shrieked aloud— 
three sharp little screams, and fell back against 
the pillows. 

£ Come, ’ said Philip, £ I am ready to go with 
you.’ At the door he turned and came back 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 247 


to where Carrie lay, white and scared, staring 
after him. 

4 ’Tis some mistake,- Carrie ; have no fear,’ 
he said. 4 And, Peter, fetch me a coat and a 
pair of shoes. ’ 

The day wore on somehow for Carrie after 
Phil’s arrest ; she sat idle, hour by hour, look- 
ing for news of him and getting none. Late in 
the day she sent Peter out to make inquiries, 
but when he returned it was to bring her very 
scant comfort. 

4 There was great excitement in town over 
the murder ; nothing was known, no news was 
to be had,’ said Peter, but he concealed the 
half that he had really heard on all sides. 
Meantime Phil was detained for examina- 
tion. 

4 In prison — Phil in prison ! ’ cried poor Car- 
rie incredulously. 4 Why, I thought to see 
him back ere half an hour had gone. O Peter, 
what can I do ? ’Tis unbelievable.’ 

Peter was dumb with distress ; he did not 
know what to think — the whole matter seemed 
to him like an ugly dream. 

4 Mayhap Mr. Philip will return home on 
bail, madam, ’ he said lamely, the only comfort 
he could suggest. 


248 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


£ But that any one should even suppose him 
to have done it ! ’ sobbed Carrie. Ah, that 
was the sting. 

Poor Carrie was to weep many tears before 
she saw the end of this sad matter. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


The Courts were crowded on the day that 
Philip Meadowes stood his trial at the Old 
Bailey. The case attracted a vast deal of atten- 
tion in its day, and if all the cross-questioning 
of Phil’s case were reported here, they would 
make a ponderous volume, that no one would 
ever finish. So the outlines of the trial must 
suffice for the story. 

‘ Ilow say you , Philip Richard William 
Meadowes , Are you Guilty of the felony and 
murder whereof you stand indicted , or Not 
guilty f ’ 

4 Not guilty. ’ 

‘ Ilow will you be tried f ’ 

‘ By God and my country .’ 

£ God send you a good deliverance .’ 

So ran the time-honoured prelude ; and the 
listening crowds echoed the prayer, for Phil 
made a- very interesting prisoner. 

lie stood in the dock and looked round him, 


250 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


nodding to right and left as he recognised 
friends among the crowd, as easy and self-pos- 
sessed as any man in the house. 

There was no trace of anxiety on his face, 
and he listened with interest and apparent un- 
concern to the damning evidence brought 
against him. 

The watchman came up for examination first. 

c May it please you, my Lord, 5 said he, ‘ this 
is all I know of this matter ; that on the night 
of the 9th January, being a black dark night 
from want o’ the moon, I came of a sudden 

round the corner of Street, and was half 

on top of something lying on the pavement be- 
fore that I well knew what I was about. A 
man rose up from under my very feet, and, 
guessing there was something amiss, I caught 
at him, and we struggled a minute, but I ’d to 
let go my lantern and it went out in the fall- 
ing. That moment came a voice from the 
ground-, “ Run, Phil , run, lest this bring you 
into trouble and with a great blow the man 
knocked me down and ran. I was a moment 
rising, and I stood to listen which way he ’d 
gone, but I heard naught but the steps of a 
man without shoes a-scudding down the street, 
for all the world as you may have heard the 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 251 


tail of a codfish flapping the flags o’ Billings- 
gate. I followed after, but I lost him in the 
darkness before I well knew. I came back to 
see if aught could be done for the wounded 
man, but he was going fast by then, and did 
but breathe once or twice again, with never a 
word — and, my Lord, I know no more.’ 

‘ Have you any notion of the hour ? ’ 

‘ The hour was some ten minutes before three 
o’ the clock. ’ 

‘ In what direction did the man run ? ’ 

£ He ran in the direction of St. James’ 
Square. ’ 

There was a little ripple of excitement 
through the Court. Then Peter, looking older 
by ten years, was brought into the witness- 
box. 

‘ At what hour did you open the door to 
your master ? ’ 

‘ At three o’ the clock, my Lord ; the watch 
had passed a moment before. ’ 

‘ Did your master say anything to you on 
coming in ? ’ 

‘ He said, “ I ’m half asleep, like yourself, 
Peter,” and passed on up the stairs.’ 

There was then brought forward a mass of 
secondary evidence, as to the relations which 


252 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


had existed between Philip and his father, and 
so on. But even with this the trial did not 
threaten to be a long one. . Ho complications 
seemed to spring up, the whole case was vir- 
tually settled long before all these matters had 
been gone into. The summing up came at 
last : — 

‘ Gentlemen of the Jury, you have heard a 
long evidence ; I shall now take notice of a 
few points, which I think are the most material. 

‘ The indictment against the prisoner at the 
bar is for a very great crime : it is for murder, 
and, moreover, for the murder of a parent. 
You must now consider the evidence. 

‘ You have heard that for some time past the 
relations between the late Richard Meadowes 
and his son have been somewhat strained ; but 
you have also heard evidence to-day, that on 
the night of the 9th January they met with 
apparent good feeling on both sides, that Mead- 
owes borrowed money of his father, and that 
they went out together, apparently on good 
terms. You have heard, gentlemen of the 
Jury, that Meadowes, when he went out, wore 
no shoes. The chain of evidence which we 
have heard after this is curiously complete. 
The watchman has told us that the murderer 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 253 


who ran down the street wore no shoes, and 
that the dying man called him “ Philip” twice 
by name, begging him to run for his life. You 
have evidence that the murderer was discovered 
at his horrid task, at ten minutes before three 
of the clock, and that he ran in the direction 
of St. James’ Square. The time which it 

would take to go quickly between Street 

and St. James’ Square is about ten minutes. 
You have evidence that Meadowes came home 
at three of the clock. Gentlemen, I am very 
much puzzled in my thoughts, and am. at a loss 
to find out what inducement there could be to 
draw Mr. Meadowes to commit such a horrid, 
barbarous murder. For though he hath not 
been on the best of terms with the late gentle- 
man, his father, yet the supposed cause of their 
coolness —an imprudent marriage — is not a 
cause likely to lead to such tragic happenings 
as these. Nor can I see what Mr. Meadowes 
would gain by the crime, were it not his own 
undoing. But, against these considerations, 
you must weigh the extraordinary evidence 
which you have heard, and must judge whether 
it be a likely case that another man, known to 
Richard Meadowes as “Philip,” and wearing 
no shoes, should have committed this crime. I 


254 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


do not say more, gentlemen ; there is little 
more to say ; go and consider your evidence, 
and I pray God direct you in giving your ver- 
dict.’ 

The Jury were absent for a very short time. 

‘ Gentlemen, are you all agreed in your ver- 
dict V 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ Who shall say for you ? ’ 

‘ Foreman.’ 

‘ Philip Richard William Meadowes, hold up 
thy hand. ’ Which he did. 

‘ Look upon the prisoner. Iiow say you ? 
Is he Guilty of the murder whereof he stands 
indicted, or Hot guilty ? ’ 

‘ Guilty.’ 

Philip listened, incredulous. Then, as the 
truth forced itself in upon his mind, the injus- 
tice and cruelty of fate overcame him. In his 
wrath and bitterness he stood silent, then, with 
a sudden hard bitter little laugh, and a dramatic 
movement of his hand, he leant forward to 
speak. 

‘ My Lord,’ he said, ‘ I am innocent of the 
blood of this just man. ’ 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


The trial then was over. And it seemed in- 
deed that before very long Philip Meadowes’ 
life too would be over. He who had laughed 
at imprisonment and laughed at trial could 
laugh no longer ; he was forced to believe at 
last that the world held him to be a murderer, 
and that as such he must die. But even sit- 
ting in his cell, a man under sentence of death, 
Philip could not realise it. This the end of 
him ? this, this, this ? It was frankly impos- 
sible that this could be the end of Philip Mead- 
owes and all his ambitions ! of the beautiful 
life he and Carrie had meant to live together, 
of that passion clean and hot as flame that 
burned between them ! Impossible ! impossi- 
ble ! 

And then, even above this cry of the heart, 
rose that keener note of anguish, that supreme 
utterance of the soul, the terror of unfulfil- 
ment. It lurks in every man, this protest of 


256 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


vitality against encompassing and ever encroach- 
ing mortality, and has its roots in life itself. 
With most men the feeling is quite unformu- 
lated and vague. 4 They would not like to be 
altogether forgotten 5 is about all that it 
amounts to, and the fear, such as it is, finds 
ready cure in the laws of their being ; having 
given hostages to Fortune they have no further 
dread that their memory will perish— the next 
generation will carry it on. But with another 
type of man the case is very different ; for 
though the child of his body may be dearer to 
him than his own flesh, the child of the soul 
will be dearer yet. 

It is this law of aspiration, effort, what you 
will, that moves on our world at all ; for 
though it is not written that one man in a 
thousand shall influence the race, or one in a 
million • leave an undying memory, yet it is 
written that every man, though half of them 
unknowingly, shall strive after some star, and 
some even shall succeed. And these myriads 
of agonising atoms form a great aggregate of 
achievement out of all proportion to their puny 
individual efforts, and slowly push the world on 
in its destined course. 

Something of all this came over Philip now ; 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 257 


above all his memories of this dear, warm, 
wooing world, that had so loved and courted 
him, came the agonising thought, ‘ I am vir- 
tually dead ; I must depart, leaving nothing 'be- 
hind.' 1 With extraordinary vividness of sensa- 
tion he had lived ; life had appeared to him as 
a long feast of rich and varied good things to 
which he had sat him down gaily. Some day 
he had thought to rise from it, gird on his 
armour, and go forth to some stirring and valqr- 
ous enterprise ; he had never decided what the 
enterprise would be, but trusted that the kind 
and bountiful Giver of life’s banquet would pro- 
vide his children with work when they had 
feasted long enough. How all these vague 
dreams of the future came down like a house of 
cards : he stood face to face with death, his 
work undone. 

This was the thought which eclipsed every 
other as these strange days rolled on, each of 
them it seemed an eternity for length, each of 
them bringing Phil nearer and nearer to the 
gallows. The very gaolers pitied Philip for 
his youth and beauty ; but they pitied Carrie 
more that day she obtained entrance to New- 
gate and a half-hour’s interview with her hus- 
band. 


258 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


Pliil sat, as he always sat then, his eyes fixed 
on the floor, his chin resting on his hands. lie 
did not even look up as the door was unlocked, 
but said merely, ‘ Lay it down, gaoler ; I have 
little appetite these days,’ thinking his food 
had been brought in. Then with a cry, in- 
articulate, between joy and agony, Carrie ran 
towards him. Phil did not stir nor speak, and 
Carrie knelt down beside him, and buried her 
face against his shoulder, sobbing. He passed 
his arm round her, but still he did not speak. 

‘ O Phil ! my darling, my joy, why can you 
not speak to me ? ’ cried Carrie. She took his 
hand in hers, and held it to her heart, kissing 
it and crying over it ; but Phil was silent. 

When he raised his eyes from the ground at 
last and looked at her, Carrie started, such a 
grave new look there was in them, and all the 
shine seemed to have gone from them. 

6 What will you do, Carrie ? ’ he said sud- 
denly. They were the first words he uttered. 

6 Do you think your father will forgive you 
when you are left alone ? will take you back to 
his home and care for you ? ’ 

‘ Don’t ! don’t ! cried Carrie ; but Phil 
went on — 

6 1 shall be hanged on the 12th of next month, 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 259 


Carrie ; there ’s no chance of a reprieve, they ’ve 
tried for it in vain, the facts are too strong 
against me. I wish ’twere sooner, even for 
your sake, my poor darling. You ’ll dream of 
me being hanged each night twice over ere then. ’ 
Carrie put her fingers in her ears. £ Stop, 
Phil ! for Heaven’s sake do not say these 
things,’ she cried; ‘they cannot kill you. 
Have you stopped speaking now ? May I take 
my fingers from my ears ? ’ 

£ Yes,’ laughed Philip. £ Come, Carrie, tell 
me, have you no doubt of your husband these 
days when all the world calls him a murderer ? ’ 
‘ Phil ! ’ 

£ Well, what do you make of it all — all this 
evidence ? ’ 

‘ How did it happen ? ’ asked innocent Carrie. 

£ I fear you know as much as I do. Prior 
did it, I fancy ; took off his shoes and followed 
my father and killed him — that ’s all I can 
think, but there ’s not a ghost of fact to go to 
prove this. They had not even quarrelled, to 
my knowledge at least.’ 

£ O Phil ! don’t look like that ! Oh, you 
are not a boy any longer,’ said Carrie, for she 
had caught the strange new expression of his 
eyes again as- he spoke. 


260 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


4 I have been a boy too long, ’ said Philip ; 
he shook his head and smiled at Carrie as if she 
were a child ; 4 and now I have grown old in a 
night — like Jack’s bean-stalk. Come and let 
me speak all my discontent to my love, and 
years after this she will remember, and will 
credit me with all I wished to do rather than 
all I left undone. ’ 

Carrie looked up wonderingly, and Philip 
spoke on — 

4 Oh, that ’s the bitterness, Carrie ; it ’s not 
a shameful death, or leaving the happy world 
even — and hasn’t it been happy ! No ; I ’d 
stand that if I left anything behind. But just 
to go out like a candle — phew ! ’ — he blew into 
the air as if at a flame, — 4 bright one minute, 
snuffed out the next. ’Tis ghastly. I cannot 
realise, it, Carrie ; I won’t — I won’t, ’tis mis- 
erable injustice. ’ 

Phil rose and paced about the cell for a mo- 
ment, then he came and sat down beside Carrie 
again, and took her hand in his. 

4 You don’t understand, you know, my heart, ’ 
he said with something of his old lightness for 
a moment ; 4 for I scarce think you ever felt 
thus. You now, if you were to die along with 
me, would not feel a pang, I believe. ’ 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 261 


‘ No, indeed, Phil ; I should die gladly with 
you,’ said Carrie, mystified. 

4 Ah, there ’s the rub. I cannot die, Carrie ; 
my personality cries out so loud against extinc- 
tion ere it hath fulfilled itself. Foolish, vain 
talk ; but I ’ve thought of no other thing night 
and day since they passed sentence on me, ex- 
cept of you. ’ 

Carrie, you know, was of another clay ; she 
sat and looked at Phil with such a puzzled air 
that he fairly laughed aloud, and his ringing 
laugh struck strangely on the walls of New- 
gate. The poor old walls had heard many a 
groan, but so few laughs that the sound was 
scarcely recognised ! 

‘ Did I puzzle her dear brains with nonsense ? ’ 
he said, taking Carrie’s face between his hands 
and kissing her. ‘ Carrie, our jesting days are 
over, and sweet, sweet they ’ve been for all 
their shortness. ’ 

4 O Phil, they cannot be over, ’ said Carrie ; 
she was only twenty, poor child, an age that 
has little realisation. 

4 Carrie, you must believe this,’ said her hus- 
band— he looked into her eyes as he spoke, and 
let his words fall slowly, — 4 I shall be both 
dead and buried this day next month— dead 


262 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 

and buried, Carrie, and you will be a widow. 
You must face this, must talk with me of what 
you are to do afterwards. ’ But Carrie would 
only shudder and hide her face in her hands. 
Phil spoke on — a curious task to set his elo- 
quence this — telling her unflinchingly all that 
would be, explaining, describing, till Carrie 
whitened and clutched his hand more tightly 
than ever. 

‘ Stop, Phil,’ she said, in a little choked 
whisper, ‘ I believe it now. ’ 

Then with a rattle of the bolts the door fell 
open, and the gaoler silently signed to Carrie 
that she must say her farewells. 

‘ 1 shall be allowed to see you once again, 
Phil,’ she whispered, before she turned away. 

Carrie’s coach had been waiting for her at 
the prison gate all this time. And when she 
came out, Peter stepped forward to assist her. 
Carrie got in, and then sat staring before her 
in a bewildered fashion. 

‘ Shall we drive home, madam ? ’ asks Peter, 
his voice very husky. 

‘ To , Yes— to my father’s,’ said Carrie. 


CHAPTEK XXXIY 


In this moment of dismay Carrie’s heart had 
turned to her father, as the needle turns to the 
north, with a tenacity of trustfulness that a 
thousand quarrels would never shake. Here, 
if anywhere, lay her help, her comfort. She 
alighted at the door of her old home and passed 
in without waiting to inquire of Patty whether 
her father was at home or no. Her trouble 
would be her passport ; she made sure of wel- 
come now, if it had been refused to her in her 
prosperity. 

The dusk had fallen, but firelight lit up the 
room as Carrie entered ; it shone brightly on 
the polished panelling of the walls with rosy 
reflection. 

Sebastian had just come in ; he stood beside 
the fire ; his great figure in the half light 
seemed to fill the little room. Carrie ran tow- 
ards him with her arms outstretched and a cry 


264 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


of joy ; the sight of him came to her in her dis- 
tress like the very peace of heaven. 

£ Save him ! save him, dada ! ’ she cried, 
turning back in her extremity to her childish 
speech. 

£ Eh, my poor Carrie ! — so trouble hath come 
to you, ’ said Sebastian, £ and so you are come 
to me.’ He paused, and looked curiously at 
his daughter as he spoke. Carrie had changed 
so much since they parted ; in her splendid 
raiment, her jewels and her laces, she looked 
such a great lady that Sebastian scarcely recog- 
nised her. But Carrie was oblivious of every- 
thing, save the one thing at her heart. She 
caught both Sebastian’s hands in hers, and 
cried again and again, £ Save him, dada ! Oh, 
sir, they’re going to hang him — to hang my 
Philip ; he ’ll hang ere the month is out if you 
do not save him.’ 

Sebastian sat down and Carrie knelt beside 
him ; there was no word of dispute between 
them now ; she gazed up into his face in 
an agony of entreaty, an ecstasy of confi- 
dence. 

£ I feared ’t would go badly from the first, ’ 
said Sebastian. £ Have you seen your husband, 
Carrie, since the sentence ? ’ 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 265 


c Yes, this afternoon. Oh, sir, ’tis impossible 
that Phil can die. ’ 

6 And what doth he say — how explain this 
murder to you — to his wife ? ’ asked Sebastian 
curiously. 

£ lie says Simon Prior — (a man, sir, that I 
always hated, a man I made Phil quarrel with 
not long ago) — he says Simon Prior must have 
done it, else he can offer no explanation. ’ 

£ And you — do you not think your husband 
did it, Carrie ? ’ 

Carrie drew back from her father for a mo- 
ment in horror. 

£ Sir ! ’ she began — but added a moment 
later — - £ but that is because you do not know 
Phil.’ 

‘ Carrie, ’ said Sebastian, leaning forward to 
take her hand in his, £ tell me, my child, my 
joy, the better part of life for me — tell me, are 
you as happy with Philip as you thought to be ? 
do you love him as first you did ? for youthful 
passions are hot, and many a time burn them- 
selves out.’ 

£ I love him more a thousand times than when 
first I loved. ’ 

£ And you believe no ill of him ? ’ 

£ As soon I would believe it of you, sir.’ 


266 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 

Sebastian rose and began to pace up and 
down the room. 

£ Have they tried for a reprieve, Carrie ? ’ 

‘ Yainly, sir.’ 

Carrie sank down, burying her face in the 
cushions of her father’s chair, and Sebastian 
paced through the room in silence. 

A scheme was already in his mind which 
would easily enough gain Philip’s release ; but 
whether to do it ? Even the sight of Carrie 
kneeling there in such an abandonment of grief 
could not move him. Willingly he would see 
Philip Meadowes die : an offence to him in the 
very circumstances of his birth ; the son of his 
bitter enemy ; himself the man who had stolen 
Carrie from him — how was it possible that he 
should work for Philip’s release ? Moreover, 
Philip was a murderer ; Carrie might dotingly 
believe in his innocence — to the world he stood 
accused ; it would be plainly wrong and un- 
principled to assist at the reprieve of such a 
man. No, he would not do it, would never 
suggest the possibility to Carrie, to any one. 
Philip should die, and Carrie would return to 
her father’s house, and they would bury the 
past in the grave that closed over Richard 
Meadowes and his son. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 267 

So argued Sebastian, as he paced up and 
down the quiet fire-lit room ; then the silence 
became full of voices — the past sung and whis- 
pered to his heart ; he was young again, and 
Annie was with him. Annie seemed now to 
speak so clearly that she might have been pac- 
ing beside him — she spoke always the same 
words, pleading with him for something with 
all her soul : — ‘ If ever you can help my Phil 
. . .for my sake ... and for gettin* Pick Sun- 
don and all his lies .’ She urged again and yet 
again. The time had come in truth ; if ever 
Phil wanted a helper, he wanted one now, and 
yet Sebastian held back. 

‘ Don’t ask it of me, Annie ! ’ he cried out 
aloud, forgetful of Carrie’s presence in the fierce- 
ness of the mental struggle he was going 
through. Carrie sat up in surprise at the sound 
of his voice, and hearing a name she did not 
know. 

4 Did you speak, sir ? ’ she asked. Her voice 
woke him to the present, to the realities of 
things, and his decision was taken in a moment. 
How had he ever questioned ? — he had promised 
Annie once and for ever to help her son if it 
ever lay in his power to do so ; worthy or un- 
worthy, as Phil might be, that promise must 


268 A DAUGHTER OE STRIFE 


be kept for the sake of the woman who had 
trusted him. Sebastian flung out his arms with 
a gesture of relief — like a man who has been 
long cramped. In the sudden rebound from 
the tense feeling of the last few minutes, he 
fairly laughed aloud, then bending over Carrie 
he raised her face to his, and kissed her wet 
blue eyes. 

‘ Come, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘ Take cour- 
age, mayhap we shall save him yet.’ 

Carrie held her breath, and Sebastian con- 
tinued : — 

‘ My Lady Y suffers from an obscure 

disease of the finger-joints.’ . . . He paused 
and looked at Carrie for a moment. 

4 I scarce see how my Lady Y ’s finger- 

joints affect my husband’s release, sir,’ pouted 
Carrie, who thought that her father had taken 
a sudden and rather unfeeling divergence into 
his own affairs at this point ; but her tears were 
dried none the less ; she listened breathlessly 
for what Sebastian was going to say next. 

4 I have an idea the cure would be simple 
enough,’ said Sebastian. ‘I’ve seen more of 
what can be done with cutting than most men, 
and I ’m not afraid of the knife. — Come, Car- 
rie, mayhap we can cut this knot yet.’ 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 269 


‘ How ? what ? ’ queried Carrie, mystified. 

‘ Plainly, I ’ll operate on your husband if he 
hath a mind to give a hand for his life, and an 
hour of agony. ’ 

Carrie had heard — as what surgeon’s daugh- 
ter of that day had not heard ?— of many a 
criminal who owed his life to her father’s lan- 
cet. It was not an uncommon means of escape 
from the gallows, though the horror of it made 
it in every case a last resort. The difficulty of 
obtaining subjects for operation in those days 
was such that the surgeons considered them- 
selves lucky when they could get some hapless 
prisoner to buy his life at their hands. As I 
say, many a tale of the kind Carrie had heard, 
yet she whitened now as she realised all that 
the plan involved. 

‘ Tush, Carrie,’ laughed her father, patting 
her white cheek. ‘ Many ’s the man hath gone 
through worse at my hands. Ask your old 
friend Cartwright how I took off his arm, and 
he ’s here still to tell the tale. ’ 

‘ Ugh,’ shuddered Carrie. 

6 Come, I had not thought to see my daugh- 
ter a coward,’ urged Sebastian. 

6 Will— will you arrange about it, sir ? ’ said 
Carrie faintly. 


270 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


4 1 shall see the authorities— then Philip ; I 
have no fear of his refusing : all that a man 
hath will he give for his life, Carrie. ’ 

‘ Will it be very bad, sir \ 9 asked Carrie. 

4 Well, I ’ll scarce guarantee him a pleasant 
hour,’ laughed Sebastian. ‘ The last I had 
under my hands from Newgate made noise 
enough to deafen one ; the one before that had 
made himself as drunk as a lord, which was 
wiser in him for certain.’ Poor Carrie, treated 
to these details — for it was a robust age,— shiv- 
ered and felt sick with horror. 

‘ Sir, sir, be quiet ! ’ she cried, with her 
fingers in her ears, and Sebastian laughed. 

‘ Send your coach home, Carrie, and stay 
with me,’ he said ; 4 where else would you 
stay, now you are in trouble \ ’ 

‘ Will you have me, sir ? ’ 

‘ Till brighter days return, my daughter.’ 


CHAPTER XXXV 


I never enter an old house without wishing it 
had a voice and could tell me all its stories and 
secrets ; but the secrets of Newgate would be 
such as none of us would listen to willingly — I 
think we would stop our ears and hasten on 
were these stones to cry out ! Nevertheless 
one of the Newgate cells could tell of a sunny 
morning long ago when Caroline Meadowes, 
Sebastian Shepley, and their friend, Dr, Munro, 
came together to aid at the release of Carrie’s 
husband. Philip needed all his light-hearted- 
ness that day, for though liberty was drawing 
near, he was to gain it by a dark enough en- 
trance. As he stood beside the window and 
looked out into the sunshiny world where men 
walked free and happy, his thoughts were bitter 
enough ; one man, at least, thought he, walked 
free that 'day who should not ! Then the door 
was thrown open, and Carrie and her father 
came in, followed by Dr. Munro. Carrie was 


272 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


white as a lily, her blue eyes shone like stars ; 
she ran towards her husband and clasped his 
hands — she could not speak, poor child. Sebas- 
tian wore his usual air of decision and cheerful- 
ness ; Munro looked with some curiosity at the 
three people brought together for such a strange 
purpose. Philip was the first to speak, coming 
forward with his graceful address to greet 
Sebastian, as though no disagreement had ever 
been between them. 

4 My dear sir, ’ he said, 4 I have no words in 
which to express my indebtedness to you. ’ 

He spoke with so much of his father’s air and 
voice that Sebastian had almost recoiled from 
his outstretched hand, but, recollecting himself, 
he took it as cordially as might be. 

4 This is my Mend Dr. Munro,’ he said, 

4 who hath come to see us through with this 
ticklish business.’ 

4 And hath Carrie come for the same end ? ’ 
asked Phil, as he turned to his wife and laughed ; 

4 1 think ’twill be better .for her to wait else- 
where till we are done with the matter.’ 

4 So thought I,’ said Sebastian, 4 but so did 
not think Carrie. Two hours' of fatherly elo- 
quence have I wasted on her this day already, 
and she hath turned a deaf ear to it all. Come 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 273 


she would, and stay she will, so there ’s an end 
of it. But this I say, the first sound she 
makes, or tear she sheds, she goes from the 
room.’ 

4 Carrie, my sweet, better far go eise where 
and wait; ’twill not be long. I fear you’ll 
find it painful to watch this,’ said Phil, but 
Carrie shook her head. 

4 Let me stay, Phil ; ’t would be harder far 
not to be near you. I shall not cry nor scream, 
believe me ; I shall be quiet all the time. ’ 

4 Carrie is no coward in truth,’ said her father 
proudly. 4 Best give her her own way, Mead- 
owes, as she seems determined in it. ’ 

4 As you please, sir,’ he said ; and there was 
a moment of ominous pause. 

4 Come,’ said Sebastian ; 4 off with your coat, 
Meadowes ; the quicker we get to work the 
better.’ He turned up his own sleeves as he 
spoke, and Munro opened out the instruments 
he carried. 

Philip flung off his coat. 

4 Which arm, sir ? left, I hope ? ’ he asked, 
beginning to roll up the shirt-sleeve off his left 
arm. 

4 Left,’ said Sebastian shortly; 4 now lie 
down and we ’ll be as quick as may be. Gad ! 


274 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 

a fine arm it is, and a fine hand — well, say fare- 
well to it, my man, for ’twill not be fair again, 
I fear. ’ 

He ran his fingers down Phil’s strong young 
arm as he spoke. Carrie, who stood beside 
him, heard him mutter something under his 
breath. c Flesh of her flesh , bone of her bone,' 
he said, and Carrie with the self-importance of 
youth, concluded that her father spoke of her 
oneness with Philip ; she thought of the wed- 
ding service : 6 He should have said, ‘ ‘ they 
twain shall be one flesh,’ ’ ’ she thought. 

‘ Go on, ’ said Phil ; and Sebastian cut sharply 
into the white flesh. , Carrie whitened and 
shuddered as she saw the first drop of blood — 
the price of a life — redden her father’s lancet. 
Then she went over to Phil’s side, and took his 
right hand in hers and held it fast. Every 
moment she felt it thrill and twitch, but Phil 
gave no other sign of what he suffered. Sebas- 
tian and Munro, intent on their work, bent over 
him with a word now and then to each other — 
it was something in these days to have live 
tissue to operate on : and poor Philip, between 
them, suffering the torments of Hades, lay 
there wondering how long he could hold out, 
for every second seemed an eternity of pain. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 275 


At first mere strength supported him, then 
strength of will, then strength of love, then, 
when all these resources had failed him, Philip 
groaned aloud, and fell into blissful forgetful- 
ness. 

4 Poor fellow ! ’ muttered Sebastian. He 
glanced across at Carrie ; she did not stir a 
muscle. 

4 We will not be long now, madam,’ said 
Munro, with pity for her white face. 

4 There — he hath paid dearly for— for life,’ 
said Sebastian a few minutes later ; 4 and I 

doubt, Munro, my Lady Y ’s courage will 

not bear her through the same ! ’ And both 
the men laughed. 

Phil came to himself slowly ; and lay white 
and trembling,' his face drawn with pain. 

4 When you feel able, Philip,’ said Sebastian, 
in a voice as kind as a mother’s, bending down 
to speak to him, 4 1 shall take you back to my 
house — you and Carrie ; ’twill be home for you 
now.’ 

Philip just smiled and closed his eyes, and 
wondered vaguely how Dr. Shepley ever got 
his voice to sound so soft ; but Carrie, crossing 
over to where her father stood, buried her face 
on his breast and wept her long restrained tears. 


CHAPTER XXXYI 


Carrie, Philip, and Sebastian formed a curious 
little household for the next few weeks. Sebas- 
tian, who was first a doctor and then a man, 
deferred his judgment upon Philip’s case in the 
meantime, and directed his energies to Philip’s 
recovery. This, with a vigorous young consti- 
tution, was not very prolonged, and he was 
soon going about as usual, only with the maimed 
hand in a sling. Then, and not till then, Sebas- 
tian began to study Philip’s character very care- 
fully. He would sit in silence and look at the 
young man, puzzling what the truth of this 
strange business was. For the life of him 
Sebastian could not resist the charm of Phil’s 
manner, and found himself unconsciously join- 
ing in his jests and his talk ; but every one did 
that — what surprised him much more was to 
find that he esteemed Philip in his more serious 
moments. When Philip chose to be serious he 
was terribly in earnest, compelling attention to 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 277 

his subject, ancl Sebastian could scarcely believe 
the evidence of his senses when first he heard 
him speak in this way. 

It was one evening as the two men sat alone 
together, Carrie having gone out of the room, 
that Philip began to speak of the future. 

‘ You know, sir,’ he said, 4 I must begin to 
earn my living — I cannot let you support my 
wife, far less myself, and I do not suppose that 
the fortune which my father meant to leave me 
can be mine now. Even if it were, I scarce 
think I could touch it while all the world sup- 
poses me to be his murderer. ’ 

Sebastian was silent for a moment, and Phil 
turned quickly and looked at him. 

4 Do you think I did that, sir ? ’ he asked. 

4 If you did, you have the most extraordinary 
easy conscience of any man I have ever met,’ 
said Sebastian. 

Phil gave a light little sigh. 4 Well, sir, ’tis 
more than generous of you to house a murderer, 
even for the sake of your dear daughter. — But 
to return to what I spoke of first. Murderer 
or no, I cannot let another man work for me 
and be idle myself, yet I fear, with the stigma 
that ’s on me now, I can scarce hope for suc- 
cess in any profession here. Sir, do you think 


278 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


I should leave England and make a home for 
my wife elsewhere ? ’ 

‘Yes,’ said Sebastian slowly ; ‘I fear ’tis 
your only chance. But leave Carrie with me 
meantime — a living, far less a competency, is 
none so easy to make, as you ’ll find when you 
begin to try to make one. ’ 

‘ Oh, I ’ve been deucedly rich ! ’ cried Phil. 

‘ I should have been working years ago ; but 
I ’ll work now like twelve men, sir, to make up 
for lost time. Tell me, sir, isn’t work a splen- 
did thing ? Now, when I see you each day 
with more than you can overtake, I wish from 
my heart I ’ d belonged always to those that 
toil. Some fraction of it all must live, you 
know, even of work like yours, sir, that appears 
to be only from day to day, ’tis really moving 
the world on. Our horrible idle days are dead 
before they are half lived ! ’ 

‘ I never saw you in earnest before, Philip,’ 
said Sebastian, with a smile for the heat of 
youth. 

‘ You see — pardon me — you have not seen 
very much of me,’ said Phil ; * but I must be 
in earnest now : Heaven knows I ’ ve played 
myself long enough. ’Tis true I enter into life 
halt now,’ he added, in a sadder tone. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 279 


This was not the last conversation they had 
on this much-vexed subject of what Phil was 
to do ; but things took on a different complex- 
ion suddenly, one night not long after. 

There came a thunder upon the knocker and 
a note from Dr. Munro. It was dated from a 

house in Street, and contained only these 

words : ‘Do your endeavour to come as speed- 
ily as may be, bringing with you Philip Mead- 
owes. ’ 

Sebastian could not explain the strange sum- 
mons. He passed the note to Philip. 

‘ Simon Prior lives there,’ said Phil, as he 
looked at the address. 

‘ Will you come, then ? ’ 

£ Yes, sir ; I fancy he hath business with 
me,’ said Phil. When they reached the house, 
Munro met them on the stairway. 

‘ Come this way, ’ he said, leading them into 
a sitting-room. He closed the door and signed 
to them to sit down. 

‘ This is the house of Simon Prior, the same 
who witnessed at your trial,’ he said, with a 
bow towards Philip. ‘ And Simon Prior is 
taken with seizures that threaten to end his 
days ere long. Years ago he came under my 
hands in hospital (do you remember, Shepley ? 


280 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


no, why should you ?) from a street accident. 
He seemingly thought me skilful, for now he 
sends for me again, and this time the case is 
scarce so easy. How, since I have been called 
in, the man has seemed in great trouble of mind 
— a more arrant coward I never knew — and he 
takes no rest day nor night, tossing and crying 
out. Since this afternoon he calls continually 
to see you, 44 Philip Meadowes,” and moreover 
hath made me send by special messenger sum- 
moning Judge Matthews to his bedside. His 
Lordship is not yet arrived, mayhap he will not 
trouble himself to come, but I have told him 
that the summons may have special bearings on 
a certain interesting case he lately tried, so I 
look to see him shortly. ’ 

Philip said nothing ; but he turned his spark- 
ling eyes on Sebastian for a moment. 

4 Doth Prior wander in his mind then ? ’ said 
Sebastian, a little anxiously. 

4 Ho, he fears death and judgment apparently, 
but when the terrors pass off him, he is in full 
possession of his senses. ’ 

4 And he seems anxious to see Philip ? ’ 

4 After a fashion. At first he seemed to 
struggle long about the matter, then asked me 
if death was near, inevitably, for him, and 


A DAUGHTER O F STRIFE 281 


when I replied that it was, he said, after a 
pause for thought, “ Then send for Philip 
Meadowes.” ’Twas after that he summoned 
Judge Matthews, seemingly an afterthought.’ 

They heard at this moment the sound of 
Matthews’ arrival in the hall. Munro went 
out to meet him and usher him in. Philip 
found himself again in the presence of his 
Judge. 

‘ A good evening to you, gentlemen,’ said 
Matthews. Phil drew himself up proudly 
and met his surprised look with a steady 
glance. 

‘ I fancy we are about to hear a curious state- 
ment from Mr. Simon Prior, my Lord,’ said 
Munro, ‘ but before we go into his chamber I 
had best tell you of his condition. ’Tis critical 
to a degree, but his mind is clear still. The 
thoughts that distract him come, I fancy, from 
an evil conscience, so I have troubled you to 
come at his bidding and hear whatever he hath 
to say, in hopes that his mind being put at rest, 
his bodily state may be bettered. Gentlemen, 
shall we go into the sick-room ? ’ 

They followed Munro into a large dim- lighted 
room, a silent, curious trio. 

Simon Prior at sound of their footsteps 


282 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


started up on his elbow, and peered into the 
dimness of the shadowy room. 

‘ Are they come ? are all come ? Is Philip 
Meadowes come, and Shepley, and Judge Mat- 
thews ? ’ he said, in an anxious, loud voice. 

‘ All are come, sir ; calm yourself and lie 
back. My Lord here is willing to hear aught 
you may have to say, ’ said Munro, laying Prior 
back against the pillows. Matthews stepped 
forward and stood beside the bed, but at sight 
of him Prior started up again. 

‘The Judge! the Judge!’ he cried, ‘and 
before day shines I ’ll stand before the Judge 
of All ! ’ 

‘ Sir, sir, compose yourself,’ said Matthews, 
as he took a seat by the side of the bed and laid 
his hand kindly enough across the coverlet. 

‘ I am come to hear your story ; take your 
time, I shall listen, however long it may be. ’ 

‘ Easily told, easily,’ said Prior. He seemed 
to have strung himself up to tell all his story, 
for he rattled it off now like a schoolboy who 
repeats his letters. ‘ Easily told — just that I 
did it — killed Richard Meadowes. I took off 
my shoes and followed him, trusting to the 
dark night. Oh, it was all as easy as could 
be. Then I told him I was Philip — just for 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 283 


vengeance — just because Phil was the only 
thing he loved on earth, and I wished to make 
his heart bleed at the last. “ I am Philip,” I 
said in this high voice’ — (he broke out into it 
as he spoke ) — 6 just as Philip there speaks — and 
Meadowes believed me. He died believing it. 
Oh, I paid him out for his treachery, for a 
thousand treacheries, and he thought his own 
boy had turned traitor at the last ! And I ’m 
glad I did it, for he had thrown me over like 
an old shoe when I had served his turn. Oh, 
sin’s easy, easy ; nothing so easy as sinning at 
the first, but now, how am I to die ? how am 
I to die ? ’ 

He tossed himself back against the pillows, 
his arms flung above his head. Philip came for- 
ward and stood looking pityingly down at him. 

‘ How you have cleared me of this crime, 
Prior,’ he said, ‘ let your mind be easy of that. 
I am here alive and well, as you see. You have 
my forgiveness, if that is any comfort to you. 
Is this all you have to tell us ? ’ 

i All ? all ? — that ’s but the end of a hideous 
story ; the beginning was so long ago I scarce 
remember it. Always money, money. There 
was the matter of Anne Champion ; but he 
was to pay every debt I had, you know, and I 


284 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 


was hard pressed at the time. Lord lay not 
that sin to my charge ! ’Twas Meadowes’ sin, 
not mine ; and there was that other affair in 
the year ’24 that ’ 

4 There,’ said Phil, turning away, 4 I for one 
have heard all I wish to hear. ’ 

But Prior talked on : — 

4 There was the matter of Anne Champion, 
as I said ; listen, Philip, for she was your 
mother, you know, and you, Shepley, you were 
her lover once, you remember ; come, and I 

shall tell you all of that I ’ 

4 Sir, sir,’ said Phil in a low quick whisper 
to Sebastian, and he pointed to the door. They 
passed out together, with the sound of Prior’s 
voice still talking on and on as they closed the 
door. In silence they passed down the stair- 
case and out into the silent street. They stood 
together there for a moment without speaking. 
Then Sebastian laid his hand on Phil’s shoulder. 

4 Come, my son,’ he said. 

***** 

Phil and Carrie were perhaps the happiest 
man and woman in London that night. And 
Sebastian Shepley, watching their joy, entered 
into it and saw in them the bright end of a 
dark story. 


A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE 285 


Ah, untraceable jugglery of Time, and 
Change, and Fate ! In all the arts of the con- 
jurer is no trickery like this ; from pain and dis- 
honour and treachery, and broken hearts and 
blighted hopes, from such a soil life sends up 
her fresh and vigorous shoots, the immortal 
blossomings of the tree that cannot wither, 
whose leaves shall surely, at some far-off day, 
heal the nations ! 
























































































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